Shadows in the Light
by TheOpalRoad
Summary: Tommy Shelby should have left well enough alone. A pretty young nanny for his son, that's all she should have been. But those warm, whisky-coloured eyes wouldn't let him be, and after the frosted oppression of grief that losing his wife had caused, she was a wave of heat he didn't know how to deny himself. If only it could be so easy - but in the Shelby estate? Not a chance.
1. Chapter 1 - Sunlit Whisky

**Author's Note: Like a lot of people out there, I am a huge fan of the show Peaky Blinders. Welcome to my first Tommy/OC story!**

**Just as a bit of background, this story is slightly AU, as Grace died giving birth to Charles, and her and Tommy were married when she told him of the pregnancy. **

**I hope you enjoy! Please review and let me know what you think!**

* * *

Mercy watched on as Charlie played contently in the vast gardens of his father's estate, his small and chubby hands clutched awkwardly around a wooden block that he gummed constantly, a teething habit Mercy had become familiar with over the past week. The sun had been strong enough this late June to spend middays outdoors, leaving a sun-kissed trail over her usually pale skin and a looseness to her muscles that made her feel like jelly when she would stand, toddler in arms, to venture back indoors for the smallest Shelby's routine nap time.

It was in those moments – head-propped on her hand as she lay, grinning at the little boy she had grown to love deeply – that Mercy believed truly that she was one of the luckiest people in the world.

As a little girl that lived in a small village only a mile from the sprawling and grand stately home, Mercy would trundle past the wrought iron gates every Saturday morning on her way to market, a basket in hand ready to be filled with potatoes and carrots, the ingredients of a hashed and cheap stew that was their staple Sunday evening meal. Small even for an eight-year-old, Mercy looked feeble in comparison to the intimidating entryway that she would wander up to in enchantment, pressing her cold little nose between the black bars in a daydream.

She'd muse endlessly about the people that lived within the towering grey stone walls: were they beautiful? She'd bet they were. Were they hungry? She'd bet never. Were they happy? How could they not be? Mercy would be filled with an awe and a wonder that only a child could possess, and would picture herself – a little girl with bright eyes and a grin – running through tall corridors and sliding down banisters and sneaking into the kitchens at night for cake handed to her by a jolly, chubby cook…

It was worth the smack should would inevitably receive from her hardened grandmother for being late home.

Of course, now that she resided within those stone walls, she flinched at her naive childhood conclusions and thought about the pain that haunted the hallways, and the frigid ambience that fell upon the overly large estate. It was difficult to permeate the frost, and the only time Mercy felt a semblance of warmth was when she was outside – in the gardens she lazed in at that moment – or when the master of the house, Mr. Shelby, had the company of his loud and boisterous family for dinner. She would sit with them, an aide to Charlie, until the little boy inevitably became tired and overexcited and would need to be swept away to be bathed and put to bed.

And while the glacial atmosphere of the home was most certainly a consequence of the manner of its often-absent master, Mercy could hardly blame him. After all, she was sure he had purchased the hollow rooms to fill them with lots of bubbly children and the laughter of his lovely wife; surely he had purchased it to live a happy life with his family. Dreams that had been cut short when Grace Shelby had died birthing her only son, Charles.

Mercy had been hired in the weeks that followed – a live-in nanny that would care for all of Charlie's needs while Mr. Shelby ran his businesses. At that time, her boss had been vacant; she couldn't be sure if he really heard or saw her during the interview process (thankfully, Polly had been there too, and did seem to be completely present – enough so to hire her, at least). Mercy worked most days – not that she minded at all: Charlie felt as much hers as anyone else's, and it often felt strange to be without him; she was paid handsomely for the trouble, too.

Never in her life did she dream she'd earn so much money. After her first splurge on jodhpurs and simple blouses of differing colours – play clothes she needn't worry about ruining – Mercy was stuck, and siphoned the money into her savings. Or rather, the lock box at the bottom of her wardrobe. Her room and food was provided for her by Mr. Shelby, and Mercy knew that she should enjoy it all while it lasted.

In the beginning, Mr. Shelby could barely look at Charlie. Mercy worked around the clock to care for the child, and was sympathetic to the difficulties the father faced, understanding how his son could be a potent reminder of the recent loss the family had experienced. But it had continued that way for months. And Mercy's sympathy had begun to lessen by the day.

Finally, about a month previously, Mr. Shelby had approached Mercy and told her that she was to have that Sunday to herself, for he would be taking Charlie to look at new horses for the day. Mercy had nodded, surprised and a little curious about the abruptness of change, before explaining that she would have him ready for breakfast that day at least, and would be home in the evening should he need her.

It had been small, frequent steps from then on, and every Sunday of the month the father had taken the son for an outing, just the two of them. The ice in the house still remained, but the master of the house seemed to be thawing slightly as his son approached his first birthday.

And while that filled Mercy with joy, she wondered idly if it meant she would become superfluous to requirement soon. So she tucked her money away, just in case the day came that saw her unnecessary in the Shelby household and she would have to move on.

After all, this was all just the dream of a little girl with a cold nose, pressing her face between iron bars that separated her fantasy world from reality.

Charlie threw the block down and giggled as it rolled away. Mercy shook her head with a grin, reached for the little boy and held him close as she stood. "Nap time, sweetheart." And time for her to plan a party.

It was Charles Shelby's first birthday in two weeks, after all, and there were joyous and plentiful celebrations to be had.

* * *

She was too pretty.

Tommy had been in a grief-induced stupor when she had been hired – an occasion he could not recall, but had been ensured he'd been present for – and so he hadn't noticed. And he had continued not to notice for the many months that followed.

He'd ignored the crude comments from his brothers about having a girl like her living under his roof, working for him, being paid to do as she was told. He'd let Polly smack them and Ada rail a them as he just sat back, cigarette in one hand and a whiskey in the other, blowing smoke lazily upward, glazed and ghostly eyes unseeing.

She had been living under his roof for almost a year – almost an entire _year_ – and he couldn't have told you what she looked like; he couldn't have picked her out of a crowd if he'd tried.

It had been a month ago that he had begun to surface from his oppressive and suffocating ocean of misery. It was a Tuesday, and as was typical he had barricaded himself in his home office, looking over shipment papers for the factory. There had been a loud bang from the hallway, like something falling, and Tommy had shot up from his chair, grabbed his revolver, and was peering round his office door in an instant.

He only opened it fully and stepped through when he heard the loud laughter of his son, and of – he soon discovered – his son's caretaker, whose name he couldn't bring to the front of his mind.

They were obviously the source of the first commotion, as the girl was laid – or more pointedly, _sprawled_ – on the floor, dark waves fanned out around her, and Charlie sat gleefully on top of her. Both were laughing and happy, until Charlie looked up and called to him ("Dada!"). The sound of his son rocked him, shot him through with delight and bitterness in equal measure, and while his face remained stoic his insides were storming with confused emotion.

She tilted her head back at that, looking up at him from the carpet with a slowly-diminishing smile. Black lashes were thick, and framed eyes of a colour that Tommy recognised instantly: an amber shade that reminded him of a tumbler of whiskey shot through by sunlight. Warm and inviting to him; tempting, soothing, and a bad idea.

Clearing her throat she had stood hurriedly, Charlie in her arms, the little boy confused by the sudden shift in mood. She had apologised and promised to clean away the toys she had inevitably slipped on before disappearing through the door of his son's bathroom, while he leaned back against the door frame, nodded once and remained silent.

She was indeed too pretty. Too much attention would be drawn to her in public; a face too easily remembered for the nanny of the son of the infamous Tommy Shelby, who had too many enemies to count. It had been a mistake to take her on in that capacity.

But by the time Tommy had noticed her, it was too late.

From then, when Tommy had the time and opportunity, he would watch the way his son would light up in the young woman's presence. He saw how Charlie would look to her when he was happy, when he was hurt, when he was scared. Tommy saw too clearly the role he had allowed her to take in his son's life through his absence – the role of a guardian, a protector, a _mother_ – and he knew it was too late to repeal the decision made almost a year ago.

Instead, he focused still on his business – legitimate, illegitimate and governmental in fashion, as Churchill hovered in the back of his mind like a shadow – but he turned his attention also to his son. A responsibility he had neglected too easily for too long, and had been forced to confront after hearing Charlie's laughter that Tuesday in the corridor. A laughter that had occurred _in spite_ of him, rather than because of.

Sundays became _their_ days, and he found himself looking forward to it throughout the rest of the week. When he looked into the face of his son, he no longer saw only the ghost of his wife, but also features of his: the same rounded chin, pink of lips and eyes of blue. He watched as his son showed a personality that was entirely his: a cheekiness, a glint of cleverness, an innocence that both he and Grace lacked.

His son was becoming a boy, and Tommy looked forward to throwing a lavish celebration for all of his family, his friends, and the children of the village nearby. Anything money could buy his son would have.

His pretty nanny was testament to that.

* * *

The first real conversation Mercy and Tommy had was that afternoon, as Charlie slept peacefully in the crib in the downstairs playroom.

Tommy had had to ask Margaret, his housekeeper, where the young woman and his son could be found and she had directed him to the room at the back of the house, where Mercy (Margaret had corrected him when he'd called her Marcy) was pondering a notebook, rocking in a chair as Charlie slept peacefully.

She was surprised when he had walked in, had assumed it would be Margaret or Glenn – the two members of the house staff that liked her enough to seek her company, or check if she or the baby needed anything. She'd looked up with a happy smile, only for it to stutter when her eyes caught the handsome face of her boss.

"Mr. Shelby," she'd begun, taking a moment to collect herself. Tommy noted silently that her expression flickered obviously, her face open and easy to read, not often something he encountered in the people he dealt with, or those who worked for him. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Mercy." Her own name sounded foreign to her – she'd never heard him use it before, and it threw her off more than she'd care to admit. "I've come to discuss Charlie's birthday with you. I'm sure you're aware it's two weeks away –" she nodded, still a little hesitant – "and I would like to throw a party, here in the gardens. There will be a lot of people in attendance – friends and family, some children from the village – and I hoped you would work with Margaret to organise entertainment, events, for the children. I will handle the invitations and Henry will sort the food, of course."

Mercy noticed that, though he was asking something of her, it wasn't phrased as a question, and she supposed that someone of his wealth and status didn't need to make requests of people like her. She was his employee, after all. What could he ask that she would have a right to deny, particularly in relation to his son?

"Of course, yes, that's fine. Should I ask you before I book anything, or –"

He cut her off, "No. Just let Margaret know the cost and I'll make sure it's handled."

There was something brutal in his manner, cutting and forthright, and it made her feel hard-pressed to converse with him in a way that felt natural. She felt so unlike herself as she looked upon his countenance: the sharpness of his cheekbones, the ice of his eyes, the way his skin stayed smooth and unflinching – it all served to create an intimidating presence that Mercy had to consciously ensure did not cause her to waver.

It was only when he walked over to Charlie and ran a finger over the chubby pink cheek of his son that Mercy noticed a softening of his hard demeanour. He looked almost human in that brief moment: the sun gently illuminated the room, reflecting off of white blankets, a glow of innocence around the baby that captured – just for an instant – the father too.

The spell was broken sharply as Tommy turned back to look at the woman in the chair, who didn't seem embarrassed at being caught watching him. If anything she looked curious, and Tommy didn't have time to ponder why.

"The party will begin in the afternoon, at 12:30. Make sure everything is set to arrive before 12:00. The party will continue until everyone has left or I tell them to go. I'll pay for the entertainment for the day so there won't be a problem."

Whisky eyes met his gaze, "I'll talk to Margaret this evening."

He nodded, cast one last look to his lovely son, and removed himself back to darker rooms of the house, away from the light and the joy. Back to the shadows he strode, to find comfort in a blacker kind of whisky.

* * *

**Tommy's perspective and dialogue were a little tough for me here – do you think it sounds enough like him? Sorry if you think it's OOC for him. Let me know. **


	2. Chapter 2 - The Shelby Boys

**A huge thank you to JToshiro and Out Of Options for your reviews – I really appreciated your comments, and I hope you enjoy this new chapter.**

**And thank you to everyone that is following or has favourited this story! I hope it lives up to your expectations.**

**Let me know what you think of this one please! Reviews are always welcome.**

* * *

Margaret had been the reason Mercy had stayed sane her first month as Charles Shelby's caretaker.

When Mercy first arrived at the estate, wide-eyed and jittery, it had been Margaret that had taken her from the front door through the winding hallways, giving clipped instructions about the serving of dinner for the workers, the day-to-day runnings of the household, and the expectations of Mr. Shelby for all of his staff.

Mercy had smiled and nodded as the housekeeper spoke, though she wasn't really taking anything of her words onboard, and Margaret looked unimpressed at the cheerful naiveté Mercy had exuded as her eyes cast around the impressive surroundings of the ornate house. Mercy had been grateful and excited for her new start in life, and had little idea of the reality she was in for.

Margaret had dismissed her as nothing more than wide-eyed and silly, and had walked away with a sharp nod, leaving Mercy in her new quarters.

She was left to unpack and look over her own room – bigger than any two rooms of her childhood home put together, with a single bed, a wardrobe and chest of drawers – before wandering through the adjoining door into the nursery. Charles' room was equipped with a lovely wooden crib, a changing table, drawers and wardrobes and toys of all kinds. It was the same size as her own bedroom, and had been painted a lovely yellow tone, offsetting the varnished dark wood floor beautifully.

The nursery was further connected to a small bathroom, with a plumbed-in bath and toilet (the likes of which Mercy had never seen before). It was beautiful – all of it luxury at its finest. Charles' room was conveniently connected to her own, the bathroom, and had an additional entryway from the hallway, for other members of the household to enter the nursery.

It had been designed perfectly for her convenience. At least, that's what Mercy had thought in the beginning.

One week later saw Margaret up at the earliest hours of the morning, an occurrence out of sorts with her usual clock-work routine, and entering the kitchen for a glass of water to quench her dry throat and cool her heated skin. She had not expected to encounter another presence at such a time of day.

It was there at the servants' table Margaret had found Mercy, eyes red and dark curls mussed, sniffling as quietly as she could at the murmuring, dozing baby in her slightly trembling arms. She had looked up violently at Margaret when she turned the light on, chasing the sanctuary the darkness had offered her away, and the older woman felt a niggling of pity at the exhaustion she saw in the caretaker's face.

Mercy had quickly looked down at Charles, tugged him a little tighter into her breast, and shook a little harder with the effort of swallowing the dry lump in her throat.

"The young master is not sleeping well." Margaret had stated rather than asked, as she reached for the pitcher of water on the side and two glasses from the cabinet.

It took a while for Mercy to respond. "Not in his room. He only settles when we walk, or when we're in here. I think he likes the hum of the electricity; I think it soothes him." She was so tired and riddled with shame that her voice was more of a croak than anything else. Being found huddled over the kitchen table in her nightclothes made her feel more pathetic than she thought possible, and while Margaret's eyes were soft the younger woman still feared her judgement.

Margaret sat beside her at the table, poured water into one of the glasses and moved it in front of Mercy before pouring her own. Mercy managed a wobbly smile before moving one of her hands to accept the offering, allowing the cool water to soothe the ache of her throat.

"Perhaps it does. Little minds are difficult to see into, lovey – though their bodies are easier to read." Margaret watched as Mercy rocked Charles gently, a motion to sooth them both, she was sure. The younger girl looked to her, eyes beseeching. "See here, the way the little master is turned towards you? He's listening to your heartbeat. And the way his hand rests on your chest? He wants to be near you; he's looking to ensure you are there still. He is content to be with you, that much is clear, lovey. It's a tough job, to be sure – but you certainly seem to be doing something right with it."

The housekeeper had patted her shoulder comfortingly, and Mercy had almost cried all over again at the sentiment of it all. That week had been the toughest of her life; nothing she had experienced before could compare to the difficulty, the exhaustion, the constancy of attention she had to pay to such a small – but such a _loud_ – duty. She had felt failure throughout her life, but failing someone so small, so fragile and so alone broke her heart.

So she determined to do better. And Margaret had made that easier than anyone else. To start with, Margaret had made their meetings seem accidental. She would conveniently need to check the work of the maids in the playroom when Charlie and Mercy were spending the afternoon in there. She would casually enquire as to the baby's health, and Mercy's too, politely.

Soon, she would approach Mercy with a cup of tea and hand it over to the younger woman as they stood over Charlie's crib, watching him sleep. She would smile a small smile at the caretaker, and ask how the young master was sleeping these days. She would nod as Mercy told her that he was better, but sought comfort in her bed some nights, lying on top of her chest, listening to her heart. Margaret would nod with a knowing glint, say that was good news but not to let the young master make it a habit, and they would sip their drinks in silence.

Their friendship was solidified when Mercy, a happy smile on her face two months after the kitchen incident, breezed into the housekeeper's bedroom on Margaret's day off, almost scaring her to death. She had Charlie ready for an outing, a picnic basket balanced at the bottom of the pushchair, and declared brightly that she had made too many sandwiches and thought Margaret might enjoy a trip to the park (it was such a lovely day, after all!). The older woman had agreed with slight hesitancy, had tied the bow of her hat primly at her chin as they made their way out the door into the sunshine.

And since then the two women had sought the company of one another regularly. So it wasn't strange to Mercy to discuss with Margaret the arrangements for Charlie's birthday party; it _was_ strange to discuss with her the interaction she'd had with the master of the house though. Not that there was much of an interaction to discuss.

"You think him handsome." Margaret had plainly stated over her cup of tea, having watched Mercy throughout her regaling of the afternoon's events, having seen the lighting of a spark in her wide eyes.

Mercy would have choked on her tea had she taken a sip. "I think him intimidating." She retorted, neither denying nor affirming the proffered statement, though she feared the colouring of her cheeks might have condemned her all the same.

"There are guns in every drawer of the house, lovey – you would do well to be intimidated. He is not to be trifled with, is Mr. Shelby." The warning in her tone was clear.

Mercy smirked a little, crossing one jodhpur-covered leg over the other. "Fear not, Margaret, I have no intentions of _trifling_ with the master of the house." She knew she had amused the older woman. Not because Margaret laughed – she wasn't sure she could ever recall such a sound – but because she tutted and gave Mercy's hand a tap of castigation. The younger girl laughed lightly at the predictable reaction of her companion.

"I would hope you have no intentions of trifling with _anyone_, child. One baby is quite enough to look after, especially one with such a naughty spirit. So much of his father in him."

Mercy tilted her head thoughtfully, "Do you think so? I couldn't possibly say."

"Oh yes," Margaret nodded avidly, "He'll be a sweet little fiend will Charles. Just you wait and see." She looked pointedly at her young friend and finished her tea.

"Is that how you would describe Mr. Shelby? A sweet fiend?" Mercy teased, curious at Margaret's word choice.

Margaret twisted her mouth, "Trouble, lovey, that's how I would describe him. Trouble and trouble with some trouble on top for good measure."

"But you think him a good man? You care for him?" Mercy pressed. She knew Margaret was aware of Mr. Shelby's business – far more than she was. Margaret ran the house after all, she knew nigh on everything that happened under its roof – even Mr. Shelby's secrets couldn't hide themselves completely from her. But still she spoke of her master with affection; with a love one might have for family lacing her words.

Margaret pondered her question. "I care for him, and I take care of him. After Mrs. Shelby died a part of Mr. Shelby was swept away, hidden beneath pain and grief. A kindness. A softness. I care for him because he does not care for himself, and he has no wife now to help him. And you care for Charles, because he has no mother to love him. Together we have our affection for Shelby men, and we care for them because –"

"It's incredibly easy to." Mercy finished, and Margaret smiled a little with a nod. Danger certainly ran in the very blood of the Sheblys: it kept their tempers hot and their minds alert and wanting. But there was something so undeniably charming too, something magnetic and charismatic that it was difficult to deny them what they wanted of you.

The littlest one had yet to even celebrate his first birthday, and still he had Mercy wrapped around his adorable little finger.

Trouble indeed.

* * *

It was early in the afternoon the following day that Tommy was driving home. He was earlier than usual in finishing for the day, having been to the betting shop on Watery Lane to check the inventory and speak to Polly. His aunt had been pleased to see him, had worn the same cautious smile she had for the past year as she asked him how he was.

She had seemed pleased when he hadn't ignored her, or thrown something, or said 'fine' without conscious thought or feeling. Pol had thought back to the Tommy who had arrived home from war – numb and darkened and cold – and had seen any progress he'd made in the five years since swallowed into the black hole opened by Grace's death.

So when she received a, "Just checking in, Pol," she could have laughed at the shock of it all.

He had chatted to her a little, asked about how the shop was doing, how John was dealing with the additional responsibilities, if Fin was keeping out of trouble. Pol had been in a suspended state of shocked happiness until she was abruptly removed from it by Tommy's change in conversation.

He was flicking through the betting shop's tickets when he spoke.

"Mercy Hale. You hired her." His tone was purposefully blank, and Pol rolled her eyes with a scoff as her hands found her hips, dark eyes suspicious.

"_We_ chose her as the successful candidate, Thomas, yes."

"And why did we do that?" The question was simple, but felt loaded.

"Has she done something wrong?" Tommy was beginning to get annoyed at the back and forth, wanted the answer to his question, and thought that Pol might have been the worst member of his family to hold the information he wanted. Because he wanted it quickly, and without his intentions being questioned.

"I just want to know what you saw that made you choose her above the other candidates. She is living in my house, after all." His tone was still plain, but he was beginning to get impatient and Pol noticed. She eyed him suspiciously a little longer, and he met her gaze with emotionless eyes.

"She's been living in your house for almost a year now, Tommy. Why the sudden curiousity?"

Tommy exhaled and gripped the back of the chair in front of him as Pol lit a cigarette. "Polly." He drawled out, and his aunt crossed one arm over her middle and inhaled the cigarette in the other, annoyed at the aloofness of her nephew and the secrets he did so like to keep.

"Kindness. That's what I saw in her. Kindness and joy. Something your house has been robbed of that a little boy needs to grow up around. Satisfied?" She spat at him, feeling little sympathy as she watched his facial expression remain stoic, and his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

Pol hadn't liked Grace, it was no secret. But she did love Charlie, and she thought that the best chance he had in life was to feel the affection and care of someone, a constant someone, while his father wallowed in grief and self-pity.

Tommy didn't think he could fault her for that, and as he pulled into the long drive of his ostentatious estate and saw his happy son being placed in his pushchair by the woman in question, he wasn't sure he could say Pol was wrong either.

It was clear the two were heading for an outing. Charlie had his bonnet on, protecting him from the June sunshine; he was dressed in suspenders and trousers, and looked sweet and so grown up that it reminded Tommy sharply of the time he had missed with his son. Mercy had exchanged the riding trousers he had seen her in yesterday for a long skirt, and while she looked ladylike and presentable for narrow-minded villagers, Tommy couldn't help but think how he preferred the figure she cut in jodhpurs and a tucked in blouse.

"Dada!" Charlie's shout made Mercy look to him, watching as he climbed from his car, the rim of his cap glinting in the sunlight. With the first smile Mercy had ever seen from him he travelled over to them, eyes on his grinning son.

"Hello, Charlie." He leaned over the pushchair as Mercy moved to stand behind it, "Are you and Mercy going somewhere nice?"

Eyes that gave a new meaning to the colour blue looked up at her, and she knew she was to answer the question accordingly, even as Charlie clapped joyfully and cried out "Cee-Cee!"

"To the village, Mr. Shelby – there is an artist there that draws pictures for children to colour in. Charlie is quite captivated by them. I thought we might take a walk and pick a new one up for him, and perhaps some new crayons too. He is very fond of greens and blues, and has worn them to the nubs." She directed the last sentence toward the back of Charlie's head with a smile, and gave his sandy hair an affectionate stroke.

Tommy watched as she did so, and thought it was time that he assured the quality of her work. He wanted to see her handle his son in the outside world, wanted to see the relationship she had with the villagers, wanted to see if he had cause to worry about the attention she would bring to his child. He wanted to see her and Charlie together, and the bond they had forged while he wasn't looking.

"I see." He looked back to Charlie, and the softness was there again, "Well, we won't be needing this pushchair, will we, Charlie? How about we take a trip in the car instead, eh?" Mercy stuttered a little, her eyebrows raised in surprise, "I'll drive you both, and we can go for a walk and maybe get ourselves a treat. How does that sound?"

Charlie, of course, had no understanding of his father's words but he clapped joyously at the tone his father used and the smile on his face. Mercy was a little less enthused, and suddenly felt wholly out of depth and unprepared for an outing with both the older Shelby and the younger, especially if the former was going to keep smiling like that.

Never mind the fact that she had never travelled by car before.

But Tommy was already lifting Charlie from the stroller, and though his face didn't show it he inwardly enjoyed the expression of disbelief flickering across Mercy Hale's lovely face.

"Come on, Miss Hale, the village awaits us!" He called to her, not looking back as he walked with happy child in arms towards his car.

She thought how, again, a question that didn't require an answer had been posed, and how strange it was going to be to deal with an entire afternoon filled with that kind of conversation. Mercy would be lying if she said she wasn't nervous to spend an hour or two with Mr. Shelby, a man who had learned her name only yesterday; who was trouble by all accounts; who controlled her position in the household, or if she would have one at all.

But she took a deep breath, rearranged her face into something smoother and more akin to composure, and picked her feet up, hurrying after her criminal boss and his cheeky son.

She was in for a strange afternoon.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! I hope you like the way the relationships are being formed – more for Tommy and Mercy next time!**


	3. Chapter 3 - The Outing

**So, this one is all Tommy/Mercy and, of course, little Charlie! I hope you like it!**

**Also, just as a heads up, this story might change to 'M' rating in the future – I haven't decided yet, but I will put it in the author's note to let you know if/when it does.**

**Thank you to everyone that has reviewed this story, I really appreciate it! And to those that have favourited/followed it!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Mr. Shelby was amused, she could tell.

When she had collected herself and finally caught up to the handsome father and son they were already at the car, Mr. Shelby waiting with the passenger side door open, free arm leaning on the top of it and an expectant look on his sharp, knowing face.

"After you, Miss Hale." There was something in his tone that hinted at teasing mockery, but his face gave nothing of the sort away. Mercy felt scrutinised, under inspection by those piercing eyes but would not have been able to point to anything about the man that said why. She smiled at him – though Tommy noted it was tight and forced – and somewhat clumsily clambered up onto the leather seat. Had Mercy been in a more comfortable situation she would have laughed at herself. As it was, she was pleased Mr. Shelby declined to comment on her fumbling. "There we go." He passed Charlie to her, and she tucked him tightly in her arms, pinning him to her body as Tommy made his way round to the driver's seat.

Mercy swallowed thickly, and Tommy noted that she was worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. He tried not to think about that – her lips full and inviting – as he turned the engine of his car on, and instead allowed his thoughts to perish in the face of his inward laughter, amused by dainty shoulders tensing at the growling of the car.

It did not take Tommy long to figure out that Mercy had not travelled by car before. Any bump in the road made her arms tighten around a sleepy Charlie: where the rumble of the engine made Mercy flinch and draw herself inward, it soothed the little boy into a light slumber. Mercy tried desperately not to disturb him with her wincing, something made more difficult by the speedy way Mr. Shelby rounded the windy country bends.

That was how she knew he was amused. He did not laugh, though there was certainly something akin to a smirk dancing at the corners of his lips. He did not overtly look toward her to observe her somewhat childish behaviour. But she was convinced he was glancing at her in his peripheral vision, and as he accelerated down the narrow lane she was sure he did so just to watch her squirm.

Mercy didn't know how she felt about being a source of hilarity for her employer. She wasn't an overly proud person, but there was something disconcerting about seeming so juvenile and inexperienced in the presence of someone that had seen more violence and terror than any other she knew. Thomas Shelby was a war hero first and foremost, and ran a criminal organisation second. And here she was, a 21-year-old cowed by a luxury car. How pathetic of her.

She straightened her back and gritted her teeth, and attempted to remain stoic as Mr. Shelby raced around the village road corner.

Tommy thought it an admirable attempt at seeming unfazed, but there was something far too open about the woman beside him for her to create a convincing pretence. He couldn't deny that he took pleasure in her nervousness, in watching her body tighten and face contort. It was such a trivial, frivolous moment that he couldn't help but enjoy the innocence of it all. Grace had been like him: closed-off and difficult to read. A spy through-and-through. This was a new experience for him, too.

It was a short drive but a silent one. Neither Mercy nor Tommy noticed that they hadn't spoken throughout their journey, and actually the first word passed between them when Tommy had pulled over, jumped from the car and round to her door, took Charlie from her arms into his, and held out a hand to help her down.

There was a slight olive branch in the proffering of that hand, given Tommy's deliberately heavy foot at sharp corners.

Mercy wasn't surprised by the gesture – she was far too busy being relieved that the beast she rode within was now asleep and silent – and so sighed happily as she placed her hand in his and stepped thankfully from the car. Warmer than she thought, his large hand was calloused and dry as she took it, and the masculine feel of it made her insides flutter.

She didn't know much of the touch of men, but now knew that she liked the feel of hands like Thomas Shelby's.

"Thank you."

The relief in her voice was palpable and made Tommy grin slightly. "We made good time." He indicated to the clock on the small, worn church tower, which read 1:45. The walk that normally took her and Charlie half an hour had taken them no more than five minutes in the car.

Mercy would have still preferred to walk.

"Yes. That's exactly what I was thinking while we were travelling here. What good time we were making." Her tone was light but Tommy sensed the undertone of dark humour and caught her eyes as she looked up from straightening her skirt.

It was the second time Mercy saw her employer smile, but it was the first time it had been directed towards her. It made her feel timid all of a sudden, and her nerves about the afternoon came back tenfold as she noted a light in his eyes that spoke of danger and excitement.

"Aye. I'm sure you were." He turned to the boy in his arms, propping him up as Charlie blearily awoke from his short sleep. "Now where is this artist you like so much, eh? Where is he?"

Charlie only yawned in response, hands in little fists as he fussed slightly in the arms of his father. Tommy shushed him gently, bouncing him lightly in a soothing manner. They had not brought his pushchair with them, and so Charlie would have to be carried around the village, as he was only just learning to toddle.

"We'll have to take a walk through the market to find him, I'm afraid – their stalls move depending on the weekday vendors. But he's usually among the jewellers and painters, at the far end." Mercy gestured towards the row of stalls that began on the field behind the church. As she did, Veronica, a mum of two whom Mercy often exchanged pleasantries with, waved in passing. Mercy noted her eye Mr. Shelby with interest, and she wondered what the older woman was thinking. Veronica knew Mercy was Charlie's nanny, not his mother, and assumed she was putting two and two together about Mercy and Charlie's additional party member.

"By all means then, Miss Hale, you know this place better than I – after you." He noticed the interaction between the two women, and assumed that Charlie and Mercy had made friends in this village.

"Of course, Mr. Shelby. Thank you."

They fell into step beside one another, Charlie gumming on his closed fist contently as they began their walk toward the market. The weather was beautiful, and Mercy had to fight not to squint against the sun. She was almost pleased to be in a skirt, the lighter material a relief as they walked across the churchyard, though she missed the freedom her jodhpurs afforded her. "You come here regularly with Charlie then."

Again. Another stated question. Mercy briefly wondered if there was an official, grammatical word for the statements Thomas Shelby made, given how common they seemed to be.

"Yes. Once a week, perhaps, when the weather permits." And sometimes when it doesn't. The pair had been caught out a few times by a seemingly nice afternoon that soon turned stormy, and had spent the afternoon holed up in the village café, or trudging through muddy pathways to a warm bath and dry clothes at the Shelby Estate. "It's a nice walk –" she hadn't realised how nice until that day "- and Charlie enjoys the company of the village children."

"Does he now?" Mercy didn't feel she was supposed to answer, and so left the question hanging rhetorically in the air. "He must enjoy it very much for it to be a weekly occurrence."

Was he criticising her? She couldn't be sure. Thomas Shelby seemed to be comprised of every shade of grey; he blurred simple words into something ambiguous and managed to make her feel uncomfortable but determined in equal measure. It was no wonder to Mercy how her employer maintained his powerful reputation, and she shuddered to think how Mr. Shelby appeared when angered, if he was so difficult on a simple village stroll.

"That, and there aren't exactly a lot of other places to visit that a toddler might enjoy within walking distance. So we do what we can in the village, and enjoy it while it still holds its quaint charm over us." She kept her tone light and easy, and her eyes flickering between Charlie and the market stalls they approached. She was sure she would see only a blank expression should she look to her employer, and so chose not to, for her own comfort.

"Would you like me to teach you how to drive, so you can explore other charming and quaint villages?" He was teasing her, and enjoyed the way it forced her eyes to meet his, sunlit whiskey dancing with mirth and surprise.

"I don't think Charlie and I are quite _that_ desperate for a change of pace." His smirk was wide, and she shook her head with pursed lips fighting a smile.

"Very well then. I will drive." Mercy almost blanched at that: at both the idea of being the passenger of his car in future, and of another outing with Mr. Shelby. "And we will find a new adventure – perhaps at the seaside, eh?" He directed the question towards his son, who ignored him in favour of twirling the buttons of his father's waistcoat with wet and sticky hands.

Mercy noticed and pulled a small towel from her belt which she was quick to rub little fingers between, inadvertently stepping closer to Tommy as she did so. He watched her movement, fluid and well-practised, and inhaled the sweet, floral smell of what he assumed to be her soap. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed the scent of a woman, and realised sharply that he enjoyed a lot of things about this employee that he had not for a long time.

His thoughts were wading into dangerous territory.

Before he could ponder further Mercy had pulled away, tucking the towel back into the belted waistband of her skirt. Charlie had returned his fingers to the buttons of his waistcoat, and it was as though the moment had never happened.

They weaved through the crowds of market-goers in silence, Tommy having to tuck Charlie in closer to his side as he whined at the bodies pressing upon them. They made it half way before the little boy called out for 'Cee-Cee' and leaned toward her, ready to be taken in her arms.

Cooing at him, Mercy conceded and took Charlie, balancing the boy on the curve of her hip. Tommy was impressed with the ease of the movement: Mercy was petite, at least a head shorter than he was, and Charlie had grown rapidly into a strapping young boy. The muscles of Tommy's arms could attest to the fact that he was a healthy child, and he expected Mercy to falter slightly under the weight of him.

He underestimated her, as she sent him a smile over her shoulder and nodded in the direction of the stall they were searching for.

Charlie settled into her arms, the routine safe and familiar to him, and Tommy made sure to walk half a step behind them. It allowed him a view of everyone and everything approaching, and of the facial expressions of the passing villagers.

Many, he noted, greeted his son and his caretaker kindly. Older men tipped their scruffy hats, smiling through chewed toothpicks; women called to Mercy and Charlie by name, and promised to catch them next week at the church fayre.

Tommy found himself amused at the teenage boys that would follow the young nanny with their eyes, nudging each other with suggestion, grins on acne-ridden faces. Mercy seemed to notice them, and sent them a kind but motherly smile, as if pitying their silly actions. Tommy felt better knowing she was at least aware of the people around her, and the way they looked at her and his son.

He watched as a large, happy smile broke out across her features and took a moment to be stunned by the change in her disposition, before following her eyes. They had found the stall that they had obviously been searching for, and Tommy took in the numerous sketches and designs on the table, varying from aristocratic photo-like paintings of the King and castles, to simple outlines of clowns and bears. Tommy assumed these were the drawings Mercy had been in want of.

"Mercy me, there you are! I've been wondering when we would see you, my girl! I had! And Charlie! You get bigger every day, boy, I'd swear by it, I would!" The man was older – perhaps in his late fifties – and seemed to be missing many teeth. His skin was weathered and leathery, though the etches seemed to be caused by the happy grin he wore in that moment. Had he not been fair-haired (though drastically balding) Tommy might have thought him of gypsy blood, as he took in the dream-catcher and feathered pendants hanging on the wooden posts of the stall. The man seemed to notice his gaze, and explained as he eyed Tommy curiously, "My wife's work. Teresa loves nothing like she loves a good feather, not even our firstborn!"

The man chuckled at his own joke, and Tommy nodded, not unkindly. Mercy shifted Charlie down, allowing him to peer at the top of the table to peruse the work there, and find one he would like to take home. "Good afternoon, Mr. Abernathy." She smiled at him, and tossed an errant curl out of her face, both hands busy holding Charlie, "It certainly feels as though he gets bigger every day, no doubt about it. This is Mr. Shelby, Charlie's father." She introduced, "He's kindly escorting us today through this wilderness of a market! Mr. Shelby," she looked to him, and he noted the serenity in her face. This was her element, he thought – warm and busy, and filled with noise – she was happy here. "This is Mr. Abernathy. He creates the beautiful drawings Charlie loves so dearly."

Mr. Abernathy waved her compliment away, "Be still my heart, love – you'll send me into shock, speaking about me like that. I'm too old for such flattery, I am. Too old!"

"I can't believe that for a second, Mr. Abernathy – you don't look a day over forty!" Tommy's eyebrows raised of their own accord as he looked at the young woman beside him with amusement, before casting a look across the rest of the marketplace. It was hard for him to feel comfortable in large crowds of people he didn't know or trust.

"You'll be the death of me, child! I swear it!"

Charlie and Mercy spent a few minutes looking over the drawings in front of them, choosing a few to take home with them. As they did, Mr. Abernathy leaned over the stall table, gesturing for Tommy to lean in. He did so, but only slightly, as if to show he was willing to listen while still keeping close to his son and caretaker.

"A golden one, you've got there, Mr. Shelby! A lucky one to have that girl in your household, you are! And a good boy you've raised too! A lovely boy! What joy they must bring you! What happiness!"

Tommy smiled tightly with a nod and a soft, 'Aye', understanding that he had no hand in raising the lovely boy or choosing the golden woman, not really. He looked towards the pairing in question, and noticed that Mercy was asking Charlie to choose between two drawings, one already decided and in her hand.

Having had enough of the claustrophobic market, Tommy sidled up next to them and said lowly, "There's no need for him to choose, Mercy." He turned to Mr. Abernathy and handed over a crisp note, more than enough to cover the cost of all of the works at the stall, never mind just the drawings they were taking.

Mercy looked at him wide-eyed as he turned back to her, Mr. Abernathy stuttering many a grateful 'thank you' as he met her gaze. She was shocked somewhat by his generosity, and the way the father seemed all too happy to spoil his infant son. More than that, though, she was surprised by the sheer forcefulness of his aura, and being caught in his personal space made her feel off-balance and overwhelmed. Further to that was the way his eyes, so light and icy in colour, were looking at her from beneath the peak of his black cap – a look she couldn't decipher for the life of her.

Mercy thanked Mr. Abernathy and promised to see him soon, saying her goodbyes as Charlie waved cheerfully. Mr. Shelby placed one of those calloused, warm hands on the base of her back and those tingles that sparked from his palm ran through her again as he guided her out of the busy crowds of the market. He didn't move his hand until they were away from the market, heading toward the park at the other side of the greenery.

Without conscious thought, Mercy headed over to the set of swings that were idly swaying in the gentle breeze. She manoeuvred herself with practised ease, sitting herself on one of the leather straps, Charlie neatly tucked in her lap, facing her with sparkling blue eyes. Lazily she began to swing backward and forward, running her feet a little in the sandpit beneath her and pulling excited faces at the little boy, causing him to laugh, exhilarated.

Mr. Shelby languidly followed, his eyes scanning the park with a wariness Mercy thought strange given the hazy idealism that the little village dwelled in. She had thought that here, in a place designed for babies and children and families, her employer would feel out of place. But no. Mr. Shelby didn't just looked as though he belonged – he looked as if he owned the village. Mercy was beginning to suspect that no matter where her employed was, he would look the one in charge.

He did not join them on the swing beside. Rather, he moved to the right of her and leaned casually against the constructed bars of the play-set, taking a packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket and lighting it. What a dark and intimidating figure he cut, even as five-year-old girls played ring-a-rosie on the green behind him.

He held the cigarettes out to her, offering her one silently.

"No, thank you."

Tommy tucked them away again and exhaled smoke from his lips slowly. "Not a smoker?" He questioned.

Mercy smiled a little and shook her head, "It's an expensive habit to have."

He only nodded, and looked at the cigarette between his fingers before inhaling again and then asking, "Drinking?"

Tommy caught the twisting of her lips, noted the sad bitterness in her expression as she looked up at him, "No, I don't drink."

Lifting an eyebrow, Tommy mocked, "Do I not pay you well enough for that, either?"

"You pay me very generously, Mr. Shelby," She countered, her voice smooth and light, before taking a deep breath. "My mother was an alcoholic. She died of liver disease when I was seven." Her hands subconsciously tightened around Charlie, and she didn't realise she had stopped swinging them until he wriggled in her lap. She smiled widely down at him, though Tommy could see it was fake, and began rocking them again to Charles' satisfaction.

Tommy allowed her words to hang in the air between them while he smoked, eyes looking into the distance, and Mercy could only be pleased they weren't on her. She didn't like to talk about her upbringing: it made her feel vulnerable and tense in ways nothing else could. She kept her eyes on the little boy in her lap, pulling faces at him as they played.

"You take care of Charles now his mother is dead. Who took care of you?"

She didn't stop playing with Charlie, but Tommy saw how she fought a rising discomfort. He didn't know if it was the blunt mention of his dead wife that had caused it, or the question he had posed to her. Mercy liked to think of herself as an honest person, and while she didn't want to peruse the details of her life, she didn't see the point in lying or avoidance.

Besides, it wasn't as if she – and the rest of the household – didn't know some details of Mr. Shelby's private life.

"My grandmother. We lived in the village on the other side of the estate. I used to walk past it every week, actually, on my way to the market here." She looked his way and noticed that he was watching her with that scrutinising gaze, like he was piecing together the information she was giving him and somehow looking for something deeper to connect it all.

"But you don't go back there." He kept his eyes on her, and she looked up at him thoughtfully, wondering what he was thinking. Nothing went unnoticed by Mr. Shelby now, it seemed, and she thought in that moment how different he appeared to the man a year ago who seemed to see nothing at all, even when it was right in front of him.

"No. I don't go back there." She confirmed, and Tommy thought that was all the information he would be prying from her today.

So he nodded slowly, stamped out and discarded his cigarette, and licked his drying lip. The sun caught the wetness he'd left there, and her eyes – unbidden – flickered to them. It was quick and meaningless, she knew, but she hoped Mr. Shelby hadn't seen it all the same. His voice was low and gravelly as he murmured, "Interesting."

"Well, I'm no criminal mastermind business mogul, but I suppose, yes. In a way." The words had left her mouth before she could think about it, and she immediately wished she could recall them. Her mouth had gotten her into trouble plenty of times in the past, and Mercy had forgotten herself and who she was speaking to.

But rather than becoming cold, or telling her to know her place, or taking Charlie from her then and there, his face split into a smile and he began to chuckle.

Mercy thought it transformed his face, that laugh. His usually icy, cutting eyes danced with mirth and his face softened under the pressure of his charming smile. He looked so much younger; he looked as though a weight had been lifted from his body.

"And here I thought you just called me 'Mr. Shelby'." Was he teasing her? She thought he might have been.

"Oh, I do. It's much quicker to say: Criminal Mastermind Business Mogul is such a mouthful after all, Mr. Shelby." For a brief moment, he thought about telling her to call him 'Tommy', but she was still his employee and he was still her boss. Besides which, there was a deeper, dirtier part of him that very much enjoyed the way she called him 'Mr. Shelby', and it sent a charge of electricity into the air between them as he looked into her.

Mercy's mouth dried out. She didn't know what he was thinking but she could feel something shift in the air between them, and it made the hairs on her arms stand on end. She thought there was something searching in the way he looked at her, and she wondered what he would find as he held her, trapped, in his gaze.

"Aye. It certainly is."

His words gave her the opportunity to break away, something she did with relief. She noticed that Charlie had gotten bored and had begun twisting her hair between his chubby fingers. She cleared her throat and unwound the strands from his grasp, standing abruptly once she had. "We should go; this one still needs to be fed, and bathed and put to bed."

Tommy didn't respond verbally, but he came close to her and she feared briefly what he was going to do. He was so much taller than her, and so handsome, and though he smelled like cigarettes there was something in that that made her eyes flutter headily. He consumed her in that moment, and she didn't like _how much_ she liked it. The feeling was strange to her, new, and she didn't understand it; she didn't understand the nervousness that being so close to him caused.

She knew he was dangerous, but this wasn't a danger she was familiar with.

But he simply took Charlie from her arms into his and began making his way across the park, back to the car. Mercy exhaled a breath she didn't know she had been holding and revelled in the lightness of the air around her, air that had been so heavy it felt like it was squeezing her.

One Shelby boy she could handle. Two? Apparently not so easy.

* * *

**So what do you think of their first, real, interaction? I'd love to hear from you!**


	4. Chapter 4 - Infiltration

**I have had such a wonderful response to this story, and I so appreciate it. I apologise for the late update – they may be sporadic due to my job, but I will continue to update whenever possible. Please let me know what you think of this chapter, as things start to pick up with our main characters!**

* * *

As far as Mercy was concerned, things only became stranger from that point.

Following an equally rapid (and nauseating) dash home, Mr. Shelby had nodded his overtly-amused farewell and ascended the grand staircase to the solace of his office. Mercy was not so proud as to deny the sigh of relief that escaped her, nor the unknotting of shoulders she hadn't realised had wound so tightly. She manoeuvred a sleepy Charlie from one hip to the other, a tired laugh of slight disbelief on her lips and in her tone as she spoke, "Well, that was interesting, wouldn't you say, sweetheart?"

They'd followed their typical routine for the rest of the day, and once Charlie was tucked up soundly in his crib – with the least resistance she could recall, leading her to add (sourly) automobiles to the list of soothing mechanisms for the toddler – Mercy decided to treat herself to a stint in the marble bathtub. Water deliciously hot, enough to redden her skin and steam up the mirror above the sink, she lowered herself to the point of her chin and allowed the heat to persuade her muscles to loosen and relax.

Unbidden, thoughts of fast cars and calloused hands weaved into the forefront of her surrendering mind.

Even hours apart from the afternoon outing, Mercy was unable to piece together something tangible about her employer. He remained a shadow, lurking now in the crevices of her mind, somehow unwelcomed and yet entirely desired. She tried to pull him into the light, reveal something of him using information garnered through their exchange, but he eluded her, passed through her attempts like fog, leaving her fumbling and confused in the mist.

Clearer only, more pronounced and palpable, was the cascade of cigarette smoke, the shine of a razor across the brim of a cap, the gentle turning of a mocking smirk, and eyes that cut through her.

She wished he wasn't so difficult. She wished he wasn't so suddenly attentive. She wished he wasn't so handsome.

As if to chase him from her mind, Mercy sank deeper and distracted herself with holding her breath, washing the thoughts away by force. There was something inappropriate in thinking of Mr. Shelby as attractive to her; it felt downright profane to do so naked, in his bath, with his infant son sleeping soundly in the room beside.

Heat of embarrassment prickled her already warmed skin. It seared through her, obliterating her thoughts into a sea of red and green spots, and she felt around her the pressure of the water on her ears, blurring reality into a strange, dulled confusion. It took a moment for her to recognise the sound trying to permeate her self-inclusion: the cry of a restless, needy child.

Mercy broke the surface of the water, scraping hair away from her face, wringing it free of as much liquid as possible, and grasping for a towel. She shot out of the tub, scrubbed the water roughly from her eyes, and did her best not to slip or stumble as she hurried from the bathroom. Her robe hung from the doorknob (the hook on the door was occupied by the case of lotions and powder for Charlie's bath time) and she scrambled for it, the knock-off silk material sticking to her damp skin as she harried to knot it around her waist.

Her hair curled in dark, damp waves, dripping water down the back of her dressing gown; wet spots blossomed about the cornflower blue, causing the material to shift and hold strangely, ending beneath her knees. She cared for none of it. She was by Charlie's side within a minute, lifting him into her arms.

The door connecting Charlie's room to the hallway opened alarmingly, and Mercy's eyes shot, startled, to the open frame. Thomas Shelby stood, in shirt, breeches and socks, poised and still and wanting answers.

* * *

It was unexpected, to say the least.

Tommy had been passing by: had exited his office for the first time since the afternoon to seek out sustenance aside from cigarettes and whisky. He was tired, but never sleepy, and had padded down the peaceful hallway until the lull was pierced by the crying, he knew, of his son.

He had already passed the door to the nursery on his travels. He'd paused at hearing the noise, and after thirty seconds of its continuing had spun on his heels and rapidly made his way back to his son's room. As always, numerous scenarios flooded his heightened senses, and Tommy wasted no time in shoving open the door to confront one of those possibilities.

Dripping wet and barely dressed, Tommy had not expected Mercy Hale – shocked, and lifting an unhappy Charlie from his crib – to greet him as such. And by the look on her face, she had not expected him either.

The room hovered in stillness for a brief moment, and Tommy exercised his skill of subtlety in the lapse. Eyes of cold blue darkened and stormed a little – without seeming to shift they engulfed the curves of the woman in front of him, and committed to memory the dip of her narrow waist, accentuated by the fullness of her hips and breasts. Her lovely lips were parted, amber eyes wide and cheeks a flushed pink.

What a surprise this pretty nanny was turning out to be.

A silly, hypocritical thing to think when one is stood in nothing but a robe, but Mercy couldn't recall ever seeing Mr. Shelby in such a state of undress. It struck her as odd – had she ever seen him without shoes before? Without a waistcoat? With the sleeves of his white button shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms, and his hair dishevelled and across his forehead, almost to his eyes?

It seemed his version of unkempt was seductively charming – and far more put-together than her own.

She felt the blush run through her very core and blossom, unyielding, in the apple of her cheeks. How bizarre she must look. How silly. How _revealed_.

With nothing to say – and it was not often Mercy found herself speechless – she clutched Charlie swiftly to her chest (both to soothe him, and, admittedly, cover more of her than the robe allowed) and the spell was lifted. Her mouth remained open, as if to suggest she had some hope, some way, of conjuring up words. With a helpless look she snapped it shut, and allowed her gaze to fight humiliation, and connect with her employer's.

Momentarily, _ridiculously_, she wondered if Mr. Shelby was at a loss too, as his eyes levelled with hers for a ghost of a moment. Her own naivety surprised her, and was proven again when he gave her a swift nod, lowly muttered an "Alright then," and closed the door with a click of finality, leaving the lingering scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke.

Shutting her eyes in shame, Mercy wanted nothing more than to clamber back into the sanctuary of her bath and sink herself in the depths of dark water and darker mortification.

It was certainly a day Mercy was glad to see the back of.

* * *

She was avoiding him.

The thought made Tommy smirk with amusement, and he whetted the tip of his cigarette along the line of his lip before holding it there and lighting with a sheltering hand. The pretty nanny was skirting his presence at every turn, and he could not help but find the hilarity of the situation uplifting.

Enough that he'd been watching her, pushing her: looking for her reaction to him in the spare time he gifted himself.

Tommy wouldn't deny that there was something sadistic in the joy he took from watching Mercy Hale squirm: watching as her lightened whisky eyes shifted from his as they passed in hallways of the house; watching as a pink hue dashed her cheeks with warmth as she sidled by him with a jerky nod; watching her throw her head back when she thought she'd manoeuvred out of his line of sight, groaning softly at the awkwardness of it all.

It was funny. And Tommy looked forward to prodding a little more at the opportune moment.

Three days of discomfort (at least on the pretty nanny's behalf) passed before Tommy felt it was time to indulge himself.

Mercy had been innocently passing by the somewhat ostentatious dining hall when the voice of her employer called out to her. "Miss Hale!" Mercy had stopped, closed her eyes, breathed deeply to collect herself and turned, poking her head through the gap in the double doors, unwilling to enter unless entirely necessary.

Necessary it seemed to be, as Thomas Shelby lifted his eyes briefly from the newspaper he held in one hand and released his fork to raise his other, gesturing her to enter the room.

Attempting to appear as nonchalant as possible in her tense and uncomfortable state, Mercy slowly entered the room, feeling dread grip her. Tommy folded the newspaper and threw it down, watching instead as Mercy reluctantly walked the length of the obscenely long dining table – the longest walk of her life, she was sure – to perch herself in the seat beside her employer, as he gestured to it.

As before, there was something mocking, scrutinising and searching in the look of Mr. Shelby, and Mercy felt all the more exposed for it. The gaze seemed to seep beneath her skin and alight it, and Mercy had to dampen the urge to fidget. She wished she had not handed Charlie over to Mr. Shelby's sister for the evening, so she would have a ready excuse to depart at any moment.

As she was about to break form and shift childishly in her seat, Margaret was called for, and a dinner plate requested to be made up for Mercy. Alarmed, she shook her head adamantly, "Oh no, thank you, sir – I take my dinner in the kitchen at a later time."

She received a dismissive look for her protests, "I require your company this evening, Miss Hale." He said it with such finality that Mercy only exhaled, and moved herself back in her chair, so she didn't look quite so ready to bolt at any moment. "Margaret, another plate, please."

Margaret nodded with an obligatory, "Of course, Mr. Shelby," but her demure demeanour did not extend to Mercy, to whom she sent a pressing look that Mercy could not decipher or translate in her nervous state of mind. She only looked at Margaret, a little pathetic and helpless, before running her tongue to wet her lips and pinning her hands down fiercely.

"Can I be of some help to you, Mr. Shelby?" A sweat fostered on the film of her hands as she continued to press them together. She raised her eyes to meet his, and he continued to survey her unflinchingly. The cutting angles of his face caught the light of the summer dusk gazing through the window, and again, she was struck by the striking, attractive force he imposed.

"What else do you like, Mercy?" Blunt and to the point, his answer caused a knitting of her eyebrows, and he watched as those confused and nervous emotions shifted over her features. It was somewhat enticing to see: her openness, and it made him smirk.

She hesitated. "What do I like, sir?"

A maid entered the dining room and, with some confusion – and did Mercy detect a little jealousy? – gracelessly dumped a plate of salmon and seasoned potatoes with greens in front of her, before huffing out of the room again. The maids did not like Mercy as a general rule: some were rude; some were just busy and indifferent. She had a feeling eating with the handsome master of the house was not going to be of help to her reputation with them.

Tommy waited for the maid to leave before continuing, "You don't like cigarettes and you don't drink alcohol." He was still watching her, the puzzlement lifting from her face, but a suspicion growing. Internally, Tommy lit up – she had good reason to be suspicious. "But you do, apparently, enjoy a late night bath." He wouldn't deny the appreciation of the blush the comment evoked, "So," he raised both hands as if to proffer the question, "What else do you like?"

Mercy desired to ask why on earth he wanted to know. That was her first thought, though it must have played across her face, as her employer's unyielding gaze persisted. The second was that she liked her privacy. But she wondered if that would be an intelligent thing to say, and shook her head a little to dismiss the idea.

She settled instead for a simple, if not cheeky, "My job, Mr. Shelby."

He laughed. At her, she was sure, but it was a definite laugh, and it startled her a little to watch him lean back in his chair and look to the ceiling. He shook his head slowly from side-to-side, before lowering his gaze to meet hers again, and the unfiltered, unfettered enjoyment threw her entirely. "Your job and baths."

A question, or a statement? She wasn't sure, and though it was – as usual – off-putting, it also somehow put her back in familiar territory. Self-awareness made her want to shake her head at herself, but the situation demanded her stillness. So Mercy simply shrugged, and responded as she traced the movement of the cigarette across Tommy's lip with her eyes as he lit up habitually, "I'm a woman of simple pleasures."

Leaning back and looking up, Tommy nodded and blew pails of smoke into the air above him. A small silence stretched as he pondered. "How old are you, Mercy?"

She was entirely unsure what he wanted of her, and so followed the veering of the conversation without question. "Twenty-one, Mr. Shelby."

"Twenty-one," he rolled the words over his tongue, tasting them, entertaining briefly the twelve year difference between them as he nodded, "Shouldn't twenty-one year olds like parties, and dancing, and-" he shot her a mocking glance, or was it teasing? She couldn't tell. "-fast cars?"

Mercy realised too late that this was a mission in enjoyment for employer, at her expense blatantly. She shook her head and allowed the corner of her lips to turn up, "I imagine some do. I enjoy a more leisurely pace." She looked back down to the plate in front of her, "I do not, however, enjoy salmon."

"My list of your dislikes continues to grow," Tommy rang for a maid who removed their plates. He looked to her, prompting with the silent question. "Soon I will be left with nothing but the idea that you are difficult to please."

"Reading." She stated, acquiescing to her employer, "Fiction mainly, and poetry. I like reading."

He looked at her, long and hard, and she realised he'd wanted a piece of information like that all along. Something to use. Something to garner more of her. Her assumption was proved by his following question. "And how does a woman such as yourself learn to read?"

Mercy couldn't help the quirking of her eyebrow, and Tommy smirked a little at the challenge of it all. "Such as myself?"

"From a poor village just down the road." Tommy tapped his cigarette in the heavy crystal ashtray on the table, and his mention of money had Mercy wondering just how much it cost. Would it be worth more than the small, one-story house she was raised in? Possibly. Quite possibly. "Schooling can be expensive."

She paused for a moment, but Tommy wasn't worried about whether she would answer. He was aware that she would. She just liked to pick her words carefully when it was something she didn't like talking about. He'd noticed that at the village park too. "My grandmother. She taught me using the bible."

More information revealed. Tommy grasped it firmly. "You're religious." It was a question, though stated again. Tommy had never heard her ask to go to church, or take Charlie; never heard her request a bible; never seen her with a rosary or any religious paraphernalia. He thought about her in a wet, clingy robe, and looked at her now in her fitted blouse. No, nothing high-minded and ethical came to mind when he thought of this woman. No godly intentions rang in his own head.

"I never said that."

"You don't seem to say much at all, Miss Hale." His comment made her smile, because nothing could be further from the truth in reality. He just made her thoughtful, and consequently, quieter. Tommy saw the mirth in her sun-dozed whisky eyes, and let his tongue brief his lips, wetting them before another drag of his cigarette.

"That's an interesting conclusion to draw after two conversations," She smirked at him a little, and then remembered herself and tacked on an obligatory, "Sir."

"Aye." Her employer scanned her with scrutiny, enjoying – though he showed none of it outwardly – the glance of personality she had allowed him, "I suppose we'll have to organise more time together then, Miss Hale, so I can be suitably informed." He picked up his newspaper, and Mercy – with slight relief, and a perplexing mixer of disappointment – recognised the dismissal.

Tommy watched her stand, followed her with his eyes, nodded as she bid him a good evening. He allowed his gaze to sit inconspicuously above his newspaper, and to stalk the young woman as she left the dining room, unaware of his observation. The pretty nanny, it turned out, was quite a lot more than pretty.

* * *

Should she be so exhausted after one conversation? A simple, short conversation, with a man she shared a roof with, no less?

The trill of wariness battered down the embarrassment she had felt previously: what did her employer want of her? Why was he so interested in her life? What was it he hoped to gain through conversing with her? Through _future_ conversations with her?

Beneath the smirking, and the non-questions, and the scrutiny, lingered one of the most dangerous men in the country: a dangerous man that seemed amused by her. That seemed to _enjoy_ her. That liked to play with her. Was it harmless?

Did the leader of crime family know how to be harmless?

Too many questions flooded her head, and Mercy released a hefty sigh. Normally, when feeling the need to unwind, she would turn to the beautiful bathtub sitting just metres from her bed.

She rolled her eyes. There was nothing relaxing about that idea anymore. Thomas Shelby had been quick to infiltrate numerous aspects of her life in an inordinately short amount of time; who knew what the next conversation of theirs would taint.

With a quick sigh and hard fall, she found the sanctuary of her bed and spent the rest of the night attempting to soothe the burn beneath her skin that her employer seemed to have unintentionally, yet irrevocably, set alight. A burn of what, Mercy refused to ponder, too afraid of the answer to a strangely difficult question.

Stranger by the day, indeed.

* * *

**Thank you again to all my wonderful followers and reviewers! Let me know what you think!**


	5. Chapter 5 - Dreams

**It has been forever, I know, and I'm sorry! Still not given up though – just pacing myself as life gets in the way!**

**Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews and follows and favourites – they've been amazing and have spurred me on to get this update sent out.**

**Someone asked me if this will be set during Season 3 with the Russians. To be honest, my only undecided about this story is whether I will add them in or go completely AU. I think the Duchess could be a really interesting addition, but I also really hate her. So I'm undecided! Any opinions, let me know!**

**Finally, I've officially changed the rating of this story to M. To keep true to the characters, I feel it had to be done. Apologies to anyone that might offend or put off this story.**

**Now, enjoy!**

* * *

Tommy could not remember a single night of peaceful sleep since the war. He could not remember a single night without visions of long-dead ghosts moaning and sobbing and wheezing intermittently in the distorted planes and slopes of his hazy mind, while a shovel inexorably scrapes against uneasy tunnel walls, against uneasy flesh and tender tissue. He could not remember not remembering the fear on his skin, crawling. He could not remember not remembering the sweat and blood.

More often than not, he woke up choking on French dirt.

He was used to sustaining himself daily on the hauntings of dead men that twisted themselves through the dark of his eyelids in the vulnerable night.

He was _not_ used to sustaining himself on the images of Mercy Hale, wet and hot and in the throes of insurmountable pleasure on the bathroom floor, while he buried himself inside her over and over and over; was not used to sustaining himself on the picture of her naked body, glowing with heat and sweat and satisfaction; was not used to sustaining himself on the sound of her moans, deep and unbidden and rattling at the bottom of her throat, sore from being thoroughly ravaged by the sound of her unending gratification. From the sound of being thoroughly fucked.

The past week, Tommy had woken up tense and hard, completely alert and with an unfamiliar yearning to fall back into the delusions sleep had offered him. It was an unexpected adjustment in pace, but all things considered, an incredibly welcome one.

The devils that lurked unbridled in the shadowy corners of his mind paused in their chaos, silent, watching instead as he took the purest good he knew in the world and fucked it senseless. It kept them at bay, kept them satiated, before inevitably riling them up with carnal aggression and sending out signals for him to grab the beautiful, innocent, ignorant woman and tear into her until she was spent and broken, and begging him to either stop or never, ever stop.

He needed a drink. A very cold, very large drink.

Shrieks of joyful village children were of no help, as Charlie's birthday party thundered on in his back garden, allowing his heated, fraught mind no reprieve. Small boys and girls paddled in an erected pool, while others petted farm animals, and more played pass-the-parcel in the corner.

Amidst it all, Mercy held tight to Charlie's hands, walking him through the small farm, stopping repeatedly to allow the one-year-old to stroke a cow or laugh at a nosy goat attempting to nip the sleeve of her pretty lilac dress.

Tommy allowed his gaze to linger, postponing his drink a little longer.

Her dark curls were free and caught occasionally on the breeze, dancing across her lovely face, smile bright and easy, lighting up those eyes that teased and captivated him, and spoke to him of hidden nerve, some wit and cheek that she tried to quash when with him.

He wanted to see it all. He wanted to strip her bare in every sense.

He wanted a fucking drink.

On his way to the bar he strode through the garden, nodding at the meddlesome parents of their small guests as they assessed him, their gracious host. Tommy couldn't help the smirk as young mothers blushed and eyed him, while the older ones look upon him with suspicion and some reservation. He paid them no mind.

It was his younger brother – Finn – that interrupted him.

Stood on the concrete patio that wrapped the back of the house, the eighteen-year-old held himself with an arrogance unearned and a satisfaction unhinged. Inevitably, Michael and Isiah flanked him, all of them swirling amber liquid; all of them with dilated pupils and excitable dispositions.

Tommy knew the boys liked to play in the snow, and any party was an excuse to partake.

Apparently, that caveat extended to the first birthday of his infant son.

As Tommy approached, he heard the low whistle from Isiah, saw as the young men fixed their gaze on a pretty lilac dress, watched as they nudged one another.

"Lord, have Mercy on _me_!" The preacher's son hollered for his friends, and they swelled with an idiotic joy, laughing a boyish laugh that grated on Tommy's ears.

"I don't know how Tommy does it, having her around, looking like that," Michael shook his head with a swig of his drink.

"Better yet, how he doesn't do it." Finn wiggled his eyebrows, and the trio giggled again.

Tommy was in no mood for their comments, directed toward him or not, and with the smoulder of his dream searing its way back up his neck he barked at them in passing: "Shouldn't you three be playing nicely with all of the other children? Go pet a donkey; learn what it looks like to be fucking useful."

And he stormed away, not bothering with a look back at his idiot brother, cousin and employee. He reached the bar and didn't stop pouring the whisky until the rim was wet and ice broke the surface. It was going to be a long fucking day.

* * *

Her list of 'Shelbys To Avoid' seemed to be ever-growing.

Each time she met the Shelbys, that streak of irrepressible madness seemed to glimmer more dangerously in each of them: that hint that they could turn to grin at you or grab you by the throat and you would never know which until it happened turned darker, and somehow more distinct.

All of them had it. Just in different forms.

Arthur, though likeable and friendly, had a dash of madness that raged brightly and shook with volatility. He was dangerous and fearsome, unpredictable, yet – compared to the madness of his brother – easy to understand. He was a drunk, but seemed to have a light heart that had been corrupted by life and death. He was married, but unsettled. Happy, but deeply shattered.

Mercy didn't mind Arthur. She had no great desire to spend Sunday evenings putting the world to rights with him over a roast dinner, but he was nice enough to greet in passing.

His wife, however. That was a different story.

Linda Shelby, with her pristine, coiffed blonde hair, red lips and slightly squashed face turned Mercy's blood. The woman was not particularly rude, was not particularly mean, was not particularly anything, really.

Except zealous. Zealous in her beliefs. Zealous in her religion.

There was something in the knotted, tight muscles of her shoulders and stoic, unflinching simpering of her expression, alongside this religious commitment that repelled Mercy. That reminded her of her childhood. More pointedly, of her grandmother.

The thought caused her throat to constrict, and bile to burn.

Linda was on the list.

Beneath her name, Aunt Polly's.

It wasn't a dislike of the older woman: Mercy had always been fond of her intelligent ideas and quick wit. She was a loyal woman, and, admirably, in equal parts soft and hard. It was the moment Mercy had brought Charlie to her that morning that signed Polly Shelby's name on the list: the moment Polly's clever, dark eyes had caught sight of the warmth in her cheeks when Mercy had seen Mr. Shelby for the first time that morning.

For the first time that week, really.

Mercy had tried to cool the rising blush before it blossomed on her face, but had little success, and had hoped it could merely have been excused by the hot sun, and rushing to ready the one-year-old for his party.

Polly had obviously not allowed her that excuse, and the suspicious look the older woman cast between Mercy and her employer told her as much.

Not that there was anything to be suspicious regarding. Mercy had barely seen her employer the week leading to Charlie's party, but the echoes of their last conversation still wound around her mind. In her sleep, she could hear his voice: the deep timber an almost whisper that tickled her skin and sent a vibration straight through her.

Most mornings she woke sweaty and wanting, something she had never face before. It unnerved her and excited her all at once.

In that moment, as she removed Charlie's shoes to allow him to be paddle-ready, she locked eyes with the older woman once more, and felt her mind spill open at the woman's feet, though she sat at a patio table with her niece, ten yards away. She felt open and unguarded, and Mercy quickly turned her eyes and attention away.

Mercy did not know Ada well: the older woman lived in London, and so visited less frequently. When she did, she liked to take Charlie for days out with her own son, Karl, and Mercy appreciated her commitment to family. Her blue eyes always seemed to bite with truth, and edged toward a short temper. Typically, Mercy felt comforted by frank people – it was one of the reasons she had found herself so attached to Margaret – but in combination with what she knew of the other Shelbys, she wasn't sure Ada's particular brand of sharpness and bluntness would settle her. She wasn't sure it wouldn't be unlike playing with gunpowder, lit cigarette in hand.

And so, to the last, and first, and somehow _most_ on her list.

Tommy's madness was a cold glimmer: all steel and shadow and fragmented. It did not grow and it did not shrink, but it revealed something new of itself at every turn. It left her breathless as it sharpened beneath the surface, always, while on the outside her employer remained controlled, expectant, waiting…

It wasn't that Mr. Shelby's madness frightened her that made her want to avoid him. That kept her skirting his presence – his all-consuming, captivating, complicated presence – at every turn. It wasn't that Tommy chased her away with his dangerous smiles and cold, clever eyes.

It was that it didn't.

It was that _he_ didn't.

So she skirted. She skirted out of fearing her lack of fear. She skirted from the danger. And with it, her desire for it.

* * *

The day had drawn on and the cake had been served. People had stuffed themselves on the beautiful gourmet food catered by Glenn, and dwindled away with their little party bags in hand, smiling and waving with happy 'thank you's.

Their little tokens of brown paper had been stuffed with small games and sweets, a task undertaken by Mercy that Tommy hadn't know about, and for the first time since their 'dinner' together – if it could be called that – Tommy caught her eye.

She was helping the housemaids pick up the remnants of wrapping and food and drinks, carrying with her a sack to deposit the rubbish. There was a tired sheen across her forehead as she sank to her knees, collecting the discarded newspaper wrapping that had been eagerly torn away during pass-the-parcel, caring, it seemed, not at all of the stains of mud it dashed her dress with. He supposed that was why she frolicked around in those tight little jodhpurs of hers: she didn't care enough to protect a pretty dress. She had no penchant for fine things.

Feeling his eyes on her, Mercy lifted her gaze. Tommy was a few metres away but could see the sleepy, hazy sun cast a glow, causing amber eyes stun like an undying fire. Tommy paused for a beat and she held his scrutiny, her head tilting ever so slightly. He tried not to think about his dreams, of having her on her knees, bright-eyed and eager and willing and filled with desire and –

He finished his drink abruptly. Raising one of the little brown bags with his other hand, he simply mirrored his movement by lifting an eyebrow in question.

Mercy had the grace to blush a little, though there was a defiant and proud smile lingering at the corners of her tempting lips. She shrugged innocently, fluttering her lashes slightly.

He couldn't help it. Rolling his eyes, he plundered the bag, fishing out the pink and blue bon-bons that had been tied with a bow, shaking them side-to-side at her to display them. Biting the corner of her lower lip, the whisky-eyed beauty just watched him, evidently a little less confident now as Tommy persisted with the matter.

He did not approach her, though. Only shook his head a little mockingly with a small tut. It was the lifting of a smirk that seemed to ease and confuse her all at once. Tommy would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it.

Gently and without effort, Tommy tossed the bag of sweets at Mercy, and she released her rubbish bag to catch it with deft fingers. There was a pause where she was unsure what to do, before a brilliant smile broke free across her face and her voice carried her 'Thank you' on the breeze.

Tommy's only response was to call out: "That's maids' work. You're done for the day." And he turned on his heel and stalked away from her.

* * *

Mercy was at a slight loss, not unusual after her encounters with her employer – no matter how brief – and found herself kneeling there a little longer as the sky darkened around her, alongside the looks the maids shot her way. At this rate she'd find a dead rat under her pillow, or her sheets and clothes dusted with white powder and pepper. More fuel for the house staff to douse their fire of disdain with.

She looked down at the bon-bons in her hand and couldn't help but smile all the same. A worrying sign, she thought to herself, a very worrying sign.

With little else to do, she stood from the ground, not bothering to dust off her knees despite her awareness of the state they were in. Charlie had inevitably been taken from her during the unwrapping of presents and eating of cake, and passed around his family members. The last time Mercy had seen him was with Ada.

Though as the young woman walked toward her with strong purpose but an easy smirk (not unlike her older brother's), Mercy could see he was no longer in her possession.

"You and I, those sweets and a bottle of whisky. What do you say?" Painted red lips grinned, and with them Ada's face lit up, sharp cheek bones giving way to rosy, soft apples. Mercy couldn't help but smile in response, noting the glittering of blue eyes as they held her gaze.

Despite her reservations of Ada, Mercy's burning curiosity about what on earth could have tempted the Shelby sister to invite her into conversation overrode any half-baked concern. Looking at her now, Mercy thought the young woman seemed rather gentle, and with a spark of kindness and humour, rather than temper, dancing in her expression.

Not only that, but Mercy couldn't remember the last time she had spoken to a woman of around her own age. Most of her friends from the village were older, family women, and Margaret – while brilliant – had rather a different perspective on life.

Even as a young girl, her grandmother had not liked her making friends with other children in the village. It was only in her teenage years, when she had escaped the tyranny of the small cottage of her youth, had Mercy's sociable disposition been allowed to prosper. And still then, it had not been easy finding like-minded people.

"Make it a cup of tea and I'm all yours." Mercy grinned, accepting the invitation.

Ada grinned, "Good, because I was never planning to share the bottle of whisky, anyway."

* * *

Ada led them to library, and they settled easily into the comfortable, cushy chairs that book-ended a small, circular table. Mercy wondered if Ada knew, somehow, that this is where she felt most comfortable in the house: surrounded by great, towering shelves of old stories, protected by their fiction and happy endings.

Curling up, Mercy placed the open packet of sweets on the table and lifted the heated china cup to her lips. Straight from the kettle: exactly how she preferred her tea.

"So how has the Arctic Circle been treating you?" Ada joked, gesturing around her as if to suggest the manor. "Is it all you dreamed it could be?" She pulled from a tumbler of whisky, the same way Mercy had seen her brother do many times, and raised a questioning, perfectly plucked eyebrow.

"It's like heaven." Mercy responded seriously, "Charlie is amazing; this house is amazing; the food –"

Ada started nodding, "You grew up poor." Mercy wondered if she should have been offended, but the straightforwardness of Ada's tone didn't cause a flush of embarrassment or insult, just cold truth. Mercy nodded, and Ada smirked wickedly, "Ok, so there are lots of amazing things here." She poised a pink bon-bon – "How does my brother measure up?" – and popped it in her mouth, eyes glittering with mischief.

Tactfully shaking her head and laughing, Mercy allowed her dark curls to pass in front of her face, grateful for the shield they provided her; so pleased that her hair tie had snapped that morning and left her no choice but to keep them free. She paused as if thinking, allowing her blush to dissipate before raising her eyes to meet Ada's again.

"He pays me well." There was a hidden spark of something Ada couldn't pick out in the nanny's honey eyes, and a light dash of pink across the bones of her cheeks. Ada recognised the withdrawal of information and laughed happily, swigging from her glass.

"I should hope so! It's been over a year, and has he ever even given you a day off? That's against labour rights, you know."

Mercy knew Ada was teasing, but had also heard of Ada's socialist favour at the dinner table before, and sensed the factual tone in the click of her tongue, punctuating the end of her sentence.

"Recently he's been taking Charlie on Sundays, so I have some time to myself then. Not that I much know what to do with it, to be fair. I just wait for Charlie's return to feed him, bath him and put him to bed. A bit pathetic, really." Mercy conceded, wrapping her tongue around a raspberry flavoured bon-bon with a hum of contentment.

Ada scoffed, swinging her legs up to rest over an arm of her chair, leaning her back against the other, "Of course you don't know what to do with yourself: you're in the middle of fucking nowhere! And on a Sunday! Unless you think the priest at the local parish is attractive –" Mercy pulled a face of disgust, causing Ada to grin, "- well then, what choices have you got! You should come to London with me: you'd never have a chance to be bored."

"But what _would_ my handsome priest say?" Mercy teased.

Ada laughed, "Better to ask for forgiveness than permission!" She finished the final sweet, and fixed Mercy with a pointed look of experience.

"And what would I need forgiveness for? What terrible things would await me in London?" There was a hint of sarcasm in Mercy's voice, though she wondered what Ada was up to. It wasn't as though she owed Mercy anything, or as if they knew much of one another.

It was easy conversation though, and Mercy found herself relaxed for the first time with a Shelby that was capable of forming a coherent sentence. Interesting.

"Oh awful things! Greed and vanity and pride! Essential components for shopping at Selfridges!"

Mercy raised her own eyebrow at Ada's excited disposition. "Shopping? Is Selfridges even open on a Sunday? And isn't it rather expensive?" Mercy thought of her little money stash in the wardrobe of her bedroom, and wondered what it would be like to splurge on something nice for herself. She'd always been rather practical – it was one habit from her upbringing she seemed incapable of shedding – and thought a treat could be a nice change of pace.

"You said it yourself, my brother is many things, but stingy he is not! And it would have to be an overnighter: Saturday to Sunday would work best, I should think."

Shocked, Mercy's throat closed around her tea and she coughed a little at the abrupt disruption of her air supply, "Overnight at a weekend? I'm really not sure Mr. Shelby will be willing to-"

Ada was already waving her hand to dismiss her objections, "Let me handle Mr. Shelby: one benefit of growing up with three brothers, it gets easy to convince them of all sorts of things. Consider it done." And she sent her a grin of victory, looking suspiciously like the cat that got the cream.

A feeling somewhere between excitement and caution laced Mercy's stomach, knotting it uncomfortably. She couldn't help but smile back, grabbing her tea cup, Ada's tumbler and the sweet wrapper as the older woman flounced away with a wink, and with it, a promise of mischief.

* * *

**I love Ada. Pleased to be getting her involved! Stay tuned for next time when she has to persuade Tommy to let Mercy go!**

**Review? Please?**


	6. Chapter 6 - Hands

**Author's Note: So, I have the best readers in the world. **

**I wasn't planning to update this quickly originally – though, by most standards, this is not quick, I know – but your reviews have been so wonderful I couldn't resist.**

**Thank you so much. And to those of you that love Mercy and this story, you are loved in return, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

**The fact that updates help those of you that are struggling at the moment makes me feel elated, and I will try to be better in updating because of you lovely readers and reviewers. You are fantastic, and wish all of you love and peace and happiness.**

**Unlike poor Mercy!**

**This is shorter than most, I'm sorry, but it's the rev up before the action. I promise to update sooner to atone for the words it lacks!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"Liberating my hired help now, are we Ada?"

The amusement in Tommy's eyes spoke of a tired mirth; an old joke that had been played out time and again at the expense of his socialist sister, whose sharp tongue and keen determination found her stationed in her brother's study near midnight, scowling with familiarity from the chair opposite his that she had thrown herself in without pause or question.

Tommy had not flinched when she had thundered in, a vision of inherited chaos and learned grace that only Ada could embody, supported in the juxtaposition of her rouge-painted lips and lengthened lashes against the twisted expression of her mouth, and daggered pupils of her eyes. He had only lifted his head, caught sight of her expression, and thrown down his pen, expecting an agenda as he leaned back against the mahogany frame of his chair, ankle resting on opposite knee.

He had not been wrong. But that didn't mean he wasn't surprised by the demand all the same.

"It's not a joke, Tommy, for Christ's sake. Let the girl have some fun. God knows she needs it; it's a wonder she hasn't frozen to death in this frigid iceberg you call a house." Sighing, Tommy refrained from comment, eyes following cigarette smoke as it willowed upward from his parted lips. He knew his sister wasn't finished. "With just you and a one-year-old for company, too. Any sane person would have topped themselves by now; jumped from the North-fucking-Tower. She needs some adult company that's not half-drowned in a whisky bottle for once."

Tommy thought that was slightly rich, coming from a woman that had blistered into his study with one hand latched protectively around a half-drained tumbler, but only raised an eyebrow to suggest as such.

"And what kind of company are you expecting to introduce her too?"

Ada tutted and rolled her eyes, "Fucking people, Tommy, who do you think? People that aren't maids or housekeepers or criminals or cold, silent arseholes on secret missions from the fucking government, that's who. Is that alright with you? Is that specific enough to meet your approval?"

Tommy did not move, enjoying the silence of the pause and letting it stretch with luxury. He loved his sister, but she spoke too much. She always had. It was a trait he struggled with, and it was why their encounters often were brief. Too many words met between them, and 90% of them were from her, pummelling the silence and stirring the solid atmosphere he built with cold glares and judgemental sighs.

"So you'll be hosting one of your parties then, for hypocrites with Soviet delusions that sip on French champagne? That's the better company you're referring to."

Ada snorted, "Frightened she'll join the revolution and won't suffer under your greedy thumb anymore?"

No, Tommy thought. A communist revolutionary newly-born was not his concern, though Ada had picked up on more than he would have liked to admit. Shopping to find a new dress, one that – with Ada's influence, no doubt – would stir with indulgence around her frame, would wrap to her silhouette, would make her the centre of all attention in the finest fashion, Ada would thrust his beauty into the direct eye line of London's youngest and finest philosophers.

And she would leave her there to sparkle.

Tommy wondered how she would react to that, the pretty nanny that blushed under his intrusive gaze. Would she flush that pretty, dainty pink like she did for him? Would she smile with discomfort and fluster? Or would that wicked little glint that sparked alight when kindled under careful circumstances flame in those whisky depths?

A plan formed. He certainly knew how he could find out.

"Alright then, Ada. You can play dress up and hostess with the workers. Next weekend will be fine."

There was no surprise in his sister at his acquiescence. He hadn't expected that there would be. She had come here with purpose, and – as always – she would not have left until the close and success of her business.

"I'll send Vince with the car –"

Tommy cut her off as she stood to leave, draining her tumbler and leaving it on his desk, just to bother him. "No need. I shall be in London on business anyway. I'll drive."

Ada looked at him, taken aback, before she scoffed out a laugh. "Are you joking?"

Tommy picked up his pen and leaned forward once more, returning to his paperwork to dismiss her. "No sense in wasting petrol."

She had yet to leave, "And it's just a coincidence that I happened to ask this of you when this _business _cropped up?"

"Aye." Tommy raised his eyes to signal the end of the conversation, "What fortunate timing you have."

Ada's grumbling over her hard luck being stuck with pig-headed, arrogant brothers made him smirk with satisfaction, but the thought of getting Mercy back in his car turned that smirk into a sadistic grin of amusement.

Caught somewhere between enjoying the thought of her tense, narrow shoulders and having her pinioned in place by fear and fast-moving, burning roads, Tommy found himself considering the questions he could ask her, the mysteries he could uncover with her there, no possible means of escape.

No option to brush around him in hallways, feet softly, lightly padding along lush carpet, head ducked and face shielded behind tumbling, silky curls; no option to turn conversation to the child in her arms, his son, to divert her attention from having to look at him instead; no option to feign occupation or take solace in maids' work.

He finished his drink and his shipping papers in twenty minutes, mind still turning with entertaining thoughts of what the next week would bring, and he exited the study, eager to let his subconscious take his imagination further, monsters awake and exhilarated and _yearning_ for another private and offending performance.

But on the way to his bedroom he stopped, turned and watched through the open door to his son's nursery as the fussy birthday boy was rocked gently in tender arms.

A brief flash of blonde hair and a blue gaze ignited behind his eyes, skin paler than the tanned little hands that cradled his son. A year to the day since the passing of his wife, and Tommy felt a blunt discomfort momentarily as he pondered the absence, allowing himself only a second before shutting the possibility of what-could-have-beens away.

Grace was gone, and while that had not been the plan, looking into whisky eyes did not find him disappointed in the crutch he had chosen for his son. Nor did he feel guilt at the solace and delight he took from them as well.

* * *

Mercy thought the day might have been enough to tucker her young ward out entirely: that between the games and the presents and the friends and the family Charlie would have been slumbering deeply until daylight. But, almost as if sensing the end of the day devoted to him, he had murmured with distaste and called out to her, demanding lost attention that left him cold and wanting.

She had plucked him from the crib and held him to the fabric of the dress she had yet to change, though it fell heavier across the sensitivity of her skin now that mud caked in patches at the bottom. Between speaking with Ada before the older girl left, and organising some of Charlie's new acquisitions in the space she hadn't previously thought limited, Mercy hadn't had the opportunity to slip into her comfortable nightclothes.

Something she found herself grateful for when Thomas Shelby made himself known.

Mercy had noticed that the door leading to the hallway had been left open, assuming that the constant stream of Shelbys striding in and out to bid farewells had seen it remain so. She hadn't thought to close it yet, unsure if any other visitors would be making themselves known.

And so they did.

In the form of a very handsome, very satisfied master of the house.

As seemed habitual before eliciting conversation with her, he shadowed the frame of the room and her eyesight, just long enough to watch the tension wind her muscles uncomfortably.

"So. London with Ada." He whispered, stepping into the dimly lit yellow of the nursery. Low and slow, the words caught sand as they left his mouth, roughened as they slid from the gravel of his throat with careful deliberation, icy embers lighting in the pit of her stomach at the texture of it. His predatory gaze did not move from her, even as he entered the room, feet barely making a sound. "You seem to have taken a liking to my family."

Strong hands curled around the top bar of the crib as Tommy slowed to a languid stop, arms spread wide as he faced her on the opposite side of the tender bed. He watched her still, clear, icy eyes a contrast to the murky intentions that always seemed to linger in the turning of his mouth, inspecting closely. Scrutinising. Always scrutinising, like he was unfurling her layer by layer.

Amusement flickered over her, born from an earlier irony as Mercy considered the list of Shelbys she had created that warranted avoidance and seemed to grow at each occasion. "Or rather your family seems to have taken a liking to me."

"Well," he responded, his eyes flickering across her face, "Aren't you the lucky one, then."

His tone certainly hinted otherwise, and danger lurked in the rasp of his response as he let the words hang dauntingly between them. Those eyes, unnerving as they were enticing, watched as her tongue darted out to alleviate the sudden dryness of her lips, leaving a tempting light reflecting in its retreat.

"It would certainly appear so, Mr. Shelby."

Charlie had begun to slumber once more, his hand having curled against the beating of her heart, though she doubted he found it soothing as the thrumming echoed throughout her head, drumming too quickly, her breathing slightly heavier to account for the strain.

She hoped her face would stay cool, or that the lighting was sparse enough to grant her emotions sanctuary in its shadows.

"Have you been to London before?"

An actual question, Mercy was sure. Another piece of information he wanted to garner from her. He had knack, she'd come to realise, of asking seemingly harmless, inane questions that one would never think too revealing, or too personal. In actuality, they exposed too much of her, more than she wanted to lay bare, and by the way he observed her, she thought it was no accident.

Thomas Shelby was gifted in reading people. She wondered if he had learned that from his Aunt.

"Yes," Mercy replied, avoiding his eyes as she placed his son back into the crib, tucking the knitted blanket around his chubby, childish frame, feeling as if he was growing by the second. Hoping the distraction meant he could not peruse her response so easily, she continued, "I've been to London before, though it's been a while."

He waited for her to look up again before replying, silently demanding her attention. "And what could a young woman want in a place like that?" Of course, he knew. Thomas Shelby was a shark, looming in the eerie silence of the room, smelling the smallest drop of blood.

"What all young women want. What was it you said? Parties, and dancing. Fast cars. Excitement." She was lying, looking him directly in the eye as she did, challenging him with the cheeky response she couldn't leave unsaid.

Tommy smirked. Each time they spoke, she seemed to unleash her nerve faster. It pleased him, stoking the temptation to push. "And that leisurely pace you enjoy?"

"There's no space for that in London." Mercy tilted her head, tone light and teasing, amber eyes glinting.

"I suppose not." Tommy nodded slowly, and smirked wickedly, "And it's best you think so. You'll be driving there with me, and Ada will be hosting her friends in the evening. So there you have it: parties, dancing and fast cars."

Mercy tried to keep the surprise from her face, she really did, but the enjoyment and satisfaction that settled over the cutting angles of Thomas' face heralded her failure. "A weekend built from dreams." It was hard to keep the sarcasm from painting her words.

"That's what most young ladies would think." With a final smirk, and a hovering glint of something sharp to touch, Tommy turned, stroked the cheek of his son, and made his way to exit. "Goodnight Mercy." He couldn't resist: "Sweet dreams." He was sure his would be.

Once Mercy had heard her employer's footfalls silence upon the closing of a door, she moved swiftly to lock herself away from the rest of the house, ensuring all entries to Charlie's and her chambers were sealed, checking twice.

Her breathing had escalated again, and the adrenaline that had spiked her veins still flowed freely, making her pace and shift and unsettle herself multiple times. With a frustration that she knew was created from more than annoyance, Mercy tugged harshly at the dress she had spent too long in, hearing a tearing stitch but having no emotion spare to care about it.

The nights were warm still, but the room felt stifling now her cold employer had finished with her, dismissing her with information he knew would play upon her thoughts for the days that led to her excursion.

An excursion she _had_ been excited for.

An excursion she thought would be a reprieve from Thomas Shelby and his caustic gazes.

He was coming too. He was to be in London at the same time as her.

After spending the last two weeks believing the house – the house she had wondered at as a small girl, the house that seemed large enough to trap dragons and princes and cooks by the dozen and a thousand maids and enough gold to fill Buckingham Palace – the house that had always seemed to be the grandest building her imagination could conjure was too small; too small for the tension she felt in confronting her employer, too small to brush by in hallways without being burnt, she honestly wasn't sure London would be big enough to make her feel any semblance of safety from his keen and unyielding interest.

Mercy wanted to sleep. She was tired and had been exhausted by the day and by being constantly attentive to guests and constantly aware of Shelbys at every turn and constantly aware of her own body language, she just wanted to collapse in a heap and let herself drift into an abyss of nothingness.

But that isn't where she would end up, and that kept her alert too.

Even now, her mind drifted to his hands, strong and calloused and large, but rather than pressing against the wooden bar of a crib they were on her. They travelled over her skin, ghosting up from bare thighs, rough and soft and delicious until they reached her waist where they stopped, gripped and lifted…

Still, he evaded her. Hands and cigarette smoke and whisky and metal told her how he might feel, how he might taste, but the flickering of his gaze…

It left her hot and cold and numb and wanting and completely and utterly ignorant. It was too much. She needed a break. And to open a window.

He wanted to unwrap her, piece by piece he wanted to tear away parts of her until she was left naked and shaking under his intent watch.

And she found herself wanting to know him too. To strip him of more than just his expensive suits. She wanted to strip him of his armour.

She was an idiot; a little girl with a death wish. Children were told not to play with fire, never ice, and Mercy wondered if that was because there was an innate knowledge, an instinct, something primal and base and barbaric that scuttled away from ice, from the cold, that kept children and adults alike safe from its cutting blade. That warned them of the danger.

Nobody needed to tell her not to play with Thomas Shelby, she was well aware.

So why did she still want to?

* * *

**Reviews are lifeblood, so please?**

**Next time: The lead up to the trip, and an interesting car ride…**


	7. Chapter 7 - Consumed

**Author's note:**

**So, I definitely made you wait for this one! I'm so sorry – obviously the world has turned upside down a bit at the moment, and I've been adjusting accordingly! This chapter has been in my head for so long now that I had to get it on paper.**

**Thank you all for your beautiful, wonderful reviews: I love hearing from you, and you've been so supportive and brilliant. I write this for you, and I hope you enjoy this entry too.**

**After much consideration, I'm thinking the Russians will have to be part of this story, but I'm going to play around with them to make room for Mercy. By that I mean the Duchess is going to have to be put in her place.**

**More on that later though.**

**For now, I hope you like this chapter!**

* * *

"Lizzie's been asking after you. Says she hasn't seen you round the city for a while. Wanted to make sure you were alright." Polly stubbed out a cigarette, smoke dense and thick in the office of the betting house as Tommy looked over the books in meagre lamplight, feeling her judgment pressing, demanding some acknowledgement of effect in the dimness.

Tommy recognised an agenda. He knew it wasn't Lizzie's secretarial role that motivated her inquiry, and Polly had no interest in the other kind of transaction Tommy sometimes utilized the former prostitute for, "And what did you tell her?"

Polly watched, scrutinized, for a reaction, a flicker of movement, a twist in his expression. Tommy did not flinch, and so she continued on nothingness. "That you've been busy."

"I'm always busy." Tommy stated, still leaning over the accounts bodily but inclining his head upward to meet her gaze, his razor-ed cap no longer shadowing the cuts of his cheekbones, the line of his chapped lips, the frost of his pointed, impatient stare. "Business is thriving, after all."

Polly considered him, ghosting over him with a pointed look from her seated position the other side of the desk. "Aye. But it's not just business this time, is it, Tommy?"

He half rolled his eyes, closing the log book in front of him to signal the end of his need to be there with her. "Get to the point, Pol." His hands found the back of the chair in front of him, and he wrung to bar once through his palms before pinning his eyes on his aunt once more, eyebrows raised with impatience. "You've got something on your mind; we both know you're not planning to keep it to yourself. So what do you have to say to me?"

Polly bristled at his soft condescension and knotted the lines around her lips tightly, drawing a sour look across her countenance. "Your attention has been somewhere else; somewhere it has no business being." She persisted, sharp and unyielding: "That little nanny of yours –"

Tommy could hardly believe he was having another conversation of this sort, and laughed airily; humourlessly. "You and Ada and my workers. Between the lot of you I get no peace." Welcomed thoughts of desperate, trembling lips and glistening, creamy skin under the calluses of his own roughened palms sparked alive in his head once more, and his smirk inexplicably deepened as he ran through the scenes offered to him in the subconscious of his mind, keeping him from true, restful sleep; keeping him alight and warm and awakened.

Polly slapped the desk sharply and stood, moving quickly to confront him, to stand just in front of him. "You leave her be, Thomas. She's not there for you; she's there for Charles. You've no business messing with her, messing with his routine, his life!"

Tommy's lips flattened, and he looked down upon her with cold precision. "She is on my payroll; she lives in my house; she helps to raise my child. She is precisely and entirely my business."

Polly persisted, clinging to the hope of making her stubborn nephew see sense. "Not like you're thinking, she isn't. Not the way you look at her, or the way you've got that poor girl looking at you."

Tommy turned away, removing a cigarette from the case in his coat pocket, checking his pocket watch as he went, thinking of those shy looks and pretty blushes. "I didn't know you were so interested in the way I look at my employees." He pinned her with his emotionless stare, and ran his cigarette along his bottom lip to wet it.

"Oh, come off it, Thomas!" Polly blistered, turning her body away to finish the last of the whisky she had poured him before slamming it down and charging toward him once again. "She's too young and too innocent and nothing at all like you or me or this family! You need to be careful. You need to be professional –"

Tommy cut across her demand. "Be professional and look at Lizzie Stark, who knows the business through and through, instead?" He lit his cigarette and raised his eyebrows in challenge, billowing more curling, silver smoke between them as they both knew the business he spoke of.

Polly stalled, breathed, folded her arms. She held his stare and replied evenly, "Get it out your system. See Lizzie and be clever about it all. You know you risk too much otherwise. You are risking too much."

Tommy shook his head, turned to leave with one parting gift, as a shy smile and whisky, honeyed eyes caught the attention of his mind once again.

"I'm a gambling man, Polly. I like my life with a little risk."

Driving home in near darkness, alone with his demons and his shadows, Tommy thought about stopping in on Lizzie: he thought about opening her whitewashed front door without knocking, pushing up the skirt of her semi-respectable, well-worn dress, bending her face-down into a table and picturing the pretty noises he imagined Mercy would make as he fucked one woman while visualizing the one he really wanted beneath his hands.

But he dismissed the notion as fleeting and ridiculous.

It would do nothing to stem the fury of his desire for Mercy Hale if he fucked Lizzie Stark. He thought of how it wouldn't compare – couldn't hope to compare – having his hands on Lizzie when he wanted the fullness of Mercy's hips and breasts, the dip of her waist, the taste of virgin lips and skin and sweat.

It wouldn't be fair. And it wouldn't do.

Only one thing would, and with London looming so near he could almost touch it, Tommy was on edge and ready as he ever had been for it.

* * *

Mercy both hoped for and railed against the lazy passing of time from one weekend to the next. She looked forward to shopping and dresses and speaking with Ada; she resisted the oncoming journey with Mr. Shelby, and even hesitated at the idea of a party amongst city men and women she couldn't hope to keep time with.

Her grandmother had taught her that the devil lived in the souls of those who liked to drink and dance and revel too freely with others: that sin would paint the skin, would drift on the melody of tainted music and in the swill of a tumbler or wine glass, before seeping through into the very blood of you, twisting and corrupting and gushing to every limb and extremity.

Until all that drives you and moves you is devilish poison.

Mercy didn't believe this to be true, but it meant that she had little to no experience at parties or gatherings; little to no experience of charming or being charmed, of entertaining or being entertained. Of what it looks like to corrupt, or be corrupted.

The thought led her back to Mr. Shelby, every time.

She had spent a year, almost to the day, in relative obscurity. With a start she had recognised that this life, this very ostracizing, often lonely life behind high walls of cold stone and dull, heavy brick, is exactly what her grandmother would have wanted for her. Virginal and shrouded and away from the throng of haunted, violent men her grandmother envisioned at every turn, ready to paw at Mercy's virtue, tarnishing its glowing white with the muddiest black.

The thought of leaving her grandmother pleased made bile singe the back of her throat. She wanted to vomit at the very idea that she had lived her life exactly the way she had troubled to reject; exactly the way she had run from at the tender age of sixteen.

Leading back to Mr. Shelby this time made her grateful, as he was the only thing that marred the perfect, holy, virtuous life her grandmother had dreamed for her. Had raised her on. Had beaten into her.

His business. His weapons. His violence. His seduction. The temptation he embodied to her. The blood on his hands, hands that had guided her, that paid her; that grasped at her in her dreams.

He was her salvation. He was the sin that penetrated the marble her grandmother wanted to form her from. To worm beneath the white and the cold and the solidity to mar its chastity.

It was dangerous.

He was dangerous. And he had spent a year entirely unaware of her presence in his home, in the life of his son. She had ghosted through the corridors of Arrow House, the Shelby Estate, with only a passing glare from an errant maid, or an indulgent half-smile from Margaret.

They slept on the same corridor and she had never even stirred his interest. She'd never even seen him breathe in her direction. Had barely crossed his path.

And now…

Now she felt like she couldn't escape him. Even when he was away – which he was, often – she felt surrounded by him, felt his infiltration in her space, in her very blood.

Like sin. That devilish poison her grandmother warned her of.

But it wasn't her space, was it? Everything she had, everyone she loved, the very bed she slept in: all of it was stamped in virile red by Shelby Corporation Ltd.

And now that he was there, so very present in her life, she was remembering that. She was remembering that she ghosted those corridors only under the banner of his permission. That she could delight in loving his son only as long as he allowed.

It was precarious. All very precarious.

Only made more so by her dreams of him. Even there she had no control, no more knowledge of him, as if her imagination daren't try to conjure what it didn't know in case it couldn't do him justice, as if her mind didn't wish to insult him with injustice.

Her hands always seemed to be tied away, shackled down and immovable as he stirred over her, all rough grazes and suffocating shadow and ashy smoke. He moved in her, on her and around her but still he felt liquid to her: drowning her, filling every inch of her lungs.

It was devious and perverted and it was all she could think about.

It was going to be a long weekend.

* * *

Mercy was nervous. She'd barely wanted to relinquish her hold on Charlie that Saturday morning, and Margaret had to practically yank the chirpy, dribbling one-year-old from her grasp so she could pack and be on her way, in accordance with Mr. Shelby's schedule.

"For goodness sake, girl: you got yourself into this mess so do the British thing and muddle through with little to no grace and deep regret. Now pass me the young master and get packing."

If she'd been looking for understanding or sympathy, Margaret would not be her go to.

And so, Mercy did as told, filling her battered, yellow, square suitcase with nightclothes and other necessities for a stopover, tucking in her savings, before breathing deeply, checking herself over once more, and meandering at a slightly slower pace than usual down the stairs and out the door.

Mr. Shelby wasn't in the driveway waiting for her, and that helped to ease the cramping tension in her shoulders just a little, sending them an inch downward from where they'd stationed around her ears. She resolved to wait for him by the car, finding the very slight breeze a comfort to her sensitive skin and the fresh air soothing to what felt like raw tissue in her lungs.

And that was where Tommy found her five minutes later.

Dressed in a light, cream jacket the same length as her calf-skimming skirt and one of her pussy-bow blouses the colour of sage, Mercy had leant herself against the dark bonnet of his car, suitcase handle grasped in both palms and chocolate tendrils falling away from the tie in her hair and across her eyes in an almost caressing breeze.

She hadn't noticed him yet, her eyes glowing honey in the mid-morning sunlight as she looked across the lawn to the gates of the house, so he stole the moment to indulge his interest and absorb her. To keep her to himself, like owning a masterful painting and peeking through the tarp you smothered it in, so no other could appreciate it. So no other could truly enjoy it.

He moved forward and caught her eye.

"Good morning, Miss Hale."

"Good morning, Mister Shelby." Her voice was slightly breathy, like she couldn't catch air, and something stirred at the edge of his nerves, catching the hairs on the back of his neck.

His hand, rough and warm, scratched the soft cold of hers as he plucked the case from her with ease and set it on the backseat, before moving around the other side, away from her, to open the passenger door. Mercy only watched as he did so, a little transfixed and lot focused on the authority in the way he moved.

With the door open in one hand, he gestured with the other for her to climb on in, "Let's not keep Ada waiting." Mercy hurried to him, eyeing his proffered hand with slight hesitation, weighing up whether the offense of ignoring it would be worth it, rather than repressing the shiver of delight that would captivate her should she take it.

The look in Tommy's eye allowed no room for negotiation, and so she grasped his hand and allowed him to guide her up the step to the cab, trying not to relish in his warmth and the fire as it spread through her.

"Thank you, sir."

He moved quickly, his black coat indicating a harsher wind than there actually was as it flowed and billowed around him, adding to his aura of mystery and drama.

As he climbed in, Mercy swallowed a deep breath, preparing to dive under water, to be consumed by him, and before she knew it the doors were shut, the engine ignited, and his presence filled every inch of space, surrounding her without reprieve.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy noted the muscles of her slender arms contract. He smirked, amused, "Try to relax: it's a longer drive than to the village."

Mercy flickered her gaze over him, noting his amusement, and fought an indignant blush of reproach. She cleared her throat slightly, feeling it dry in embarrassment under his notice, "How long does it take to travel to London by car?"

"Quicker than the train," His eyes didn't move from the road, "About two hours to Central London, where Ada wants you for your afternoon of dressing up and spending money."

Mercy thought of her little stash in the pocket of her suitcase, recalling the memory of her reverently packing the cash to be assured that she did have the money with her.

Trying to be polite, Mercy responded, "I hope that doesn't lead you too far away from your business."

"It does." Tommy was blunt, and he could see it caught her by surprise. He didn't allow his face to move, teasing out her reaction further.

Mercy was slightly aghast, and floundered a little before stuttering forward, in unsure territory. Hadn't he usurped the journey and told her he was going to driving her? "Well, I'm sorry, I didn't realise it would cause you a hardship–"

"Why are you sorry?" He interrupted, swinging a little wildly on a left turn to unseat his companion. She had learned from last time though, and he was secretly a little impressed and a little amused that she held herself so stubbornly. Those curls that had escaped their tie fluttered in her eye line though, and she was harried in the way she pushed them aside.

Mercy felt her indignant spirit rising, and tried to remind herself that she wasn't a hardheaded little girl anymore, and she wasn't speaking to a hardheaded little boy: she was speaking to a veritable lord, considering the power he held over her. "For making you drive out of your way –"

"Did you make me do that?" She thought the idea laughable, that she could make him do anything he didn't want to. An absurd notion. But Tommy noted that her jaw had tightened slightly, and that actually, in a way, she had made him drive out of his way in order to keep her close. In order to illicit the conversation they were having now.

"Well, no, I suppose not –"

Another interruption and Tommy was suppressing his amusement with little success, Mercy observing the mocking way he played with her. They reached the main road, and Tommy felt in no rush to overtake the slower driver in front of them, drawing out their time together.

"A strange thing to apologise for then, isn't it?"

A beat of silence passed between them as Tommy took the time to light up a cigarette, holding it casually between his thumb and forefinger, his other hand flat against the bottom half of the steering wheel. He released the smoke in his mouth and tapped the ash out of his window, all while Mercy watched, open expression painted with suspicion.

"Are you trying to make me uncomfortable?" She hadn't meant to sound so accusatory, but Tommy heard it, and knew that he'd been found out. He grinned a little. Clever girl.

"Are you feeling uncomfortable?" It was strange to hear a tease in the depth of his voice, and something pleasurable flickered in the bottom of her stomach.

She scoffed and shook her head, the words tumbling from her before she could reel them back into her mind. "I'm starting to feel put off."

Tommy nodded slowly, moving his eyes from the road to hold her eyes, embers flickering with doubt, trepidation and a whisper of something that encouraged him. Delighted him, even. "The trip to London, or me?"

"Both." She promptly responded, though that lovely pink mouth of hers lifted with nerve and levity, before she conceded, "And neither." He met her gaze again, but she felt so easily read, so open and vulnerable, that she shook her head in amusement to break the connection.

Tommy persisted, flicking his half-finished cigarette out of the window, both hands returning to the wheel to take a right turn, "I don't like small talk. Travel and the weather; it's a waste of time."

Mercy wanted to roll her eyes at his impatience, but thought better of it, choosing a more diplomatic route, "You're a businessman. Surely you need small talk to make connections." She shifted slightly on the leather of her seat, feeling out of depth by mentioning his work, wondering if she really wanted to veer the conversation so.

Tommy looked at her for a beat, shaking his head ever so slightly, and thinking about just how little she knew. How she had no real idea who she worked for; no idea where he planned to lead her. What he planned to do with her. It excited him more than he would have cared to admit, and the demons in his mind hissed and purred. "Not in the kind of business I run, sweetheart; not with the kind of connections I make."

Mercy breathed a little deeper and exhaled through her nose, not wanting to ask though feeling she should know. Was Mr. Shelby the right person to ask? Would he indulge his secret criminal world to her? "You're not a man of words then, Mr. Shelby?" She didn't think so, and so she didn't ask. She'd just have to pry what she could from others. Maybe from Ada, if the opportunity arose.

"Only the words that need saying, Miss Hale." Mercy thought that a little shameful, given how wonderfully sinful his voice was. She wished he'd say more, so she didn't have to be the one revealing so much of herself. But that was what he wanted, wasn't it?

The notion led her to prompt: "So shall we proceed in silence?"

Tommy looked at her with amusement, and a sharp rejection of her question, "Oh no, there's plenty that needs to be spoken about today. There are answers that you owe me." He watched her eyebrows rise briskly, and her look turn to shocked apprehension.

"I owe you?"

Tommy wanted to grin at her consternation but refrained, allowing the lightness in his tone to contrast with the serious angles of his sharp face.

"Aye."

Mercy forced her open mouth to shut, having to work the muscles of her jaw harder to churn out her response with respect and a tone of semi-playfulness. Tommy saw through it with ease. "To what questions?"

Tommy's answer was simple: "Any that I ask you."

The command of a man that always got what he wanted, that's what it was. Mercy hardly thought she could stand to it, as surprised as she was.

"And do I get to ask you questions?"

Tommy laughed – at her, she was sure – the sound mainly working out of his nose to add to its mocking texture. He pinned her with a look, and god, Mercy thought he was so dangerously beautiful. "You can ask."

Did his voice have to be so deep and alluring? So saturated in a dark temptation, rough and tangible?

Mercy sighed, and lifted one leg to cross over the other, her movement revealing her exasperation. "But you don't owe me answers?" How business-like this all felt; Mercy could understand how he sped through transactions with no small talk.

"I pay you. I owe you nothing but the wages we've agreed upon." He watched her from the corner of his eye, letting the reminder of his power wash over her, noting her bristle with that fire he liked so much as she appalled his words.

"So I answer, or I lose my position?" Mercy felt this was ridiculous; she felt it was unfair, and then tried to dampen her childish reaction. When had anything ever been fair in her world? And she knew, she knew the moment Thomas Shelby had told her he planned to drive her to London, just the two of them in the shrinking confines of his car, that this would be the plan. To unravel her as he had been doing since the moment he realised she existed. And truly, did she not feel a little thrilled by it all?

"No. You answer, and I let you keep your position." Mercy shook at her head at his response, and wondered how serious he was being.

"Really?"

Tommy let a sharp pause pierce the air and addressed her with a cool look that somehow burned her and doused the black embers in her stomach simultaneously. "It's important I know who my son spends his days with. It's important that I know my sister's friends and acquaintances. It's important I know who lives under my roof, in my house." He ran his tongue along the chapped skin of his top lip, so pink and full and enticing as his next words encouraged the reaction in her he intended, "Who sleeps three doors down from me."

Mercy held his gaze stubbornly, and he watched her flicker with anticipation, worry and a lovely spark of bridled desire. She shook her head and wished she'd left a curtain of hair down to hide herself behind. "I think you're overestimating how interesting I am."

"I think you're going to lengths to make me believe that." His suspicion offended her, but she only watched him as he spoke, low and slow and ridiculously beautiful, "And I think I'll decide what's interesting."

She licked her lips and turned her head to watch the passing scenery, realizing abruptly that she'd been so caught up in him – in his words, his posture, his magnificence – that she'd had no time to be uncomfortable with the machine purring softly beneath her.

Her only discomfort came from the man sat half a foot away, yet somehow pressing all around her. The man that demanded she give herself over, demanded entry to the fortress of her memory. Did she want to let him?

Did she have a choice?

"What would you like to know, Mr. Shelby?"

* * *

**The car ride has begun!**

**To be continued…**

**Let me know your thoughts, and make sure you stay safe and healthy! Wishing you all the absolute best.**


	8. Chapter 8 - Predator

**Author's Note: It's been a while (I have a terrible habit of making you wait, I know!) but finally a new chapter, with lots of Mercy/Tommy goodness for you, and lots of dialogue.**

**The car ride is here! **

**Enjoy, and stay safe and healthy in these strange and uncertain times!**

* * *

"What does a girl like you want in a place like London, when her grandmother lives in a sooty little village outside of Birmingham?" Mercy supposed it was a somewhat tame question, and found herself a little grateful that her perceptive employer hadn't tried to dig too deeply, too quickly. As such, she quirked her head a little and looked over at him, hoping her admiration of his beauty wouldn't betray her.

"It's a good place for employment."

Tommy allowed his eyes to drift from the road to Mercy's sun-shot whisky gaze, filled with something akin to guarded appreciation and hesitance. "Better than my house?" There was a note of levity to his tone, and Mercy wore a teasing, irrepressible smile on those full, pink lips. It was almost a smirk, and it urged his keen need to strip her bare and own her completely.

Mercy, alight and unaware of his darkness, shot back with easy playfulness, "No. But you weren't looking for a nanny five years ago."

Five years ago would have seen Mercy, no more than a girl, aged only sixteen, and Tommy wondered how the shadow and filth of London hadn't sank its teeth into her and dragged her into something unsavoury, like it had so many other young women. There was an air of naivete that often made its way around Mercy, that captured her expression in a painting of childish innocence, and Tommy knew she'd not seen those shadows of the city.

"And what employment did you find? Plenty of opportunities for a pretty young woman in a big city." Tommy half expected her to bristle at the implication, but her eyebrows rose instead, and her tone took on a slightly metallic note of offence.

"Plenty of opportunities for anybody in 1919. The War left a lot of empty spaces… though I wouldn't dream of telling you that."

Tommy caught the steering wheel with his knees, and felt a smirk of victory run over his features at the way Mercy's eyes widened and her hands clenched over the leather of the seat, almost marking it wither her nails. He took another cigarette from the silver case and ran it over his bottom lip, tasting the promise of ash and smoke. "And why is that?" He lit up, returned the lighter and case to his pocket, and grasped the steering wheel again.

Mercy didn't miss the reminder that Mr. Shelby was in complete control, in every way, though it wasn't the reason for her softer tone and half-closed lids. "Because you were there. In France."

"And how do you know that." She recognised that he'd issued her a command, not a request, and while it rattled an ire within her throat it also stirred up something hot and indescribable that made her muscles tense and ache with equal force. It made her swallow in discomfort, and Tommy watched as her little red tongue darted out to comfort her pretty lips.

"The maids talk."

It was true, though if she were being completely honest – which she usually was – she'd overheard the maids talking to one another in the kitchen one evening, not long after her arrival, all giggles and whispers and conspiracy that she was not welcome to.

They'd said how Mr. Shelby was clever, and brave, and strong; a medal-winning hero, with hands hardened by the rough wood of heavy shovels.

Given that all she knew of Mr. Shelby then had been his glacial silence and haunted, frosted expression Mercy had relished in the information.

"Do they now?" Tommy snatched her from her memory, demanding her return to his attention, and she gave him a firm nod and cheeky grin at the hint of mockery towards his staff in his tone.

"Yes. They find you very impressive."

Tommy moved the cigarette from his mouth with a sense of victory and a thrill of deviance. He pinned her with his gaze, and enjoyed the flutter of surprise that danced over her features at his response. "Do you find me impressive?"

Mercy smiled, though her jaw was loose and the shock still etched into her forehead, her mouth stretching over her teeth for lack of a better response. A noise whispered from her throat, something alike a gasp and a laugh. The words spilled forward, as though something in Mr. Shelby's audacity had helped her find her own. "I find you _o_ppressive; does that count?"

Tommy grinned. Now there was the nerve he had been pressing for, and a white fire lit beneath his skin, causing the shadows in his mind to scatter and flicker with manic satisfaction. "And this is before you spend a night with Ada. What a treat you'll be tomorrow."

Mercy laughed, low and little husky, blinking slowly as she recovered from the wicked glee that affected those sharp lines and soft lips. "I'm aware of my place in society, thank you very much; I _like_ my place in society." And she did. She'd told her employer already that she had love for her job, love for Charlie. She was paid well for her service, and it was a service she gave gladly.

Tommy settled back into a self-satisfied expression, and took the bend a gentler speed this time, watching the movement of Mercy's lips as he mocked her: "Being oppressed by me?"

"Being _paid_ by you for something I find a lot of joy in."

Tommy thought of other women he knew who found joy in their position, and who were paid handsomely for the joy they gave. That dark, demonic part of him wound to the forefront of his mind, where it played a picture of dark curls wrapped around his hand and an exhausted smile of sin and corruption on a satisfied, innocent face.

Did this little beauty have any idea who he really was? _What_ he really was?

Did she have any idea what he wanted from her?

"And do you know where that money comes from? That money I pay you for your joy? The money you will be using today to buy pretty things from profiteering department stores?"

Mercy tried not to cough as the cigarette smoke moved in her direction, the breeze from Mr. Shelby's open window causing it to encircle her, and her eyes pricked a little with it as she nibbled at her lower lip and admitted honestly, and cautiously, "I know it comes from a medal-winning soldier."

Hadn't they spoken about this? Didn't he recall her endowing a title upon him that had collared him amused: 'criminal mastermind business mogul', was it? She knew more than his past, he was sure. "And what else do the maids say about where that money comes from?"

There was a pause, and Tommy could read her hesitation and trepidation. She didn't want to offend him, and Tommy couldn't help but enjoy the way she moved herself around him, accommodating his reputation, swilling and tasting words before they left her as she measured her nerve and let her sense win over. "That you have many businesses. Some are factories, some are races, some are pubs… some are not quite as legitimate." He shot her a glance out of the corner of his crystal eyes, and Mercy said with careful deference, "None seem to be any of my business."

Mercy wished she had something to drink: her mouth was dry and her throat felt half-closed as Mr. Shelby graced her with a look of amusement and black pleasure.

"Try telling that to the rest of my household staff."

Shrugging, Mercy watched him flick away his cigarette, her voice casual and eyes a little cooler, "I would, but the maids aren't likely to listen to the nanny's advice."

"Is that right?" Tommy halted a moment, registering the harsh way she swallowed, the light flush over her cheeks, and the darkening of light honey to deep ember in those captivating eyes. He could see why the maids didn't want to put themselves beside her. "Jealousy is a fine thing."

Laughing a little sharply, though not without genuine humour, Mercy's brain didn't bridle the words that left her, and she was thankful her tone was light and teasing, and not as accusatory as it might be. "They're only jealous because you give them cause to be."

"Do I?" Tommy smirked at her brazen comment, and turned his head for a moment longer than necessary to see the nerve in her gaze claw at her self-reproach. The nerve won, and an eyebrow quirked at him as her fingers flexed over the leather of the seat.

"The questions, the dinner, this drive to London – they are only jealous of me because they wish you paid them the same attention." Mercy thought back to Charlie's party and the way the maids had sneered at her when Mr. Shelby had left; she remembered the salmon thrown down in front of her by Dorothy as she sat to her employer's right at his ostentatious dining table. Mercy thought of their whispering and their shady looks her way any time Mr. Shelby was near them.

It was clear to her where her unpopularity stemmed from.

And Mr. Shelby was looking at her that way again. Like she was small and tasty and too easily caught, and he was huge and hungry and ready to strike. It should have frightened her. It didn't. "And why don't I pay them that attention?"

Mercy blinked. "I'm sure I don't know."

Tommy smirked, raised his eyebrows as if disappointed and all too satisfied by her ignorance. "Why do I pay you attention?"

Mercy's breath caught, and the pink blossomed in her skin again, uncertain and unwilling to chance a guess. She tried to measure her response, regulate her breathing, but too much silence had passed between them and Tommy threw her a look full of wickedness at the unbridled depth in her voice.

"I'm sure I don't know that either."

Eyes light and mocking, Tommy played along. "My, my. That's a lot that you aren't aware of, Miss Hale. I seem to have you in a position of weakness."

A tension hung heavy between them, and Mercy thought back to the hum of electricity that lulled Charlie to an easy slumber. A charge akin to that ruptured between them, but it made Mercy feel anything but tired. She forced a little laugh, shaking her head in an attempt to alleviate the strain. "You like having people in a position of weakness."

Tommy smiled, debauched thoughts passing between the monsters at the dark edges of his mind. He teased with inherited ease, enjoying her discomfort, watching her shift a little under the weight that pressed between them. That he was pressing into her. "Trademark of an oppressor."

Mercy hummed her agreement, "It's awfully predacious of you."

Tommy thought of how she liked to use sophisticated vocabulary to regain a sense of control and wetted his lips, fingers desperate to dig into the soft skin of her hips, her thighs; to leave little purple marks in the unmistakable shape of his fingertips that signed his control and authority all over her, that spoke louder and clearer of dominance than her clever words ever could. "Predacious is a fancy word for it." He gripped the steering wheel tighter, disappointed in a resistance he knew the curves of her body wouldn't show.

Mercy knitted her brows together, "For what?"

Tommy paused a little, deliberately teasing, and Mercy felt his words – calloused and somehow soft – cascade from the top of her and all the way down, "For saying that I like having you beneath me."

The noise she made was half a scoff at his implication, and half a laugh of disbelief, and she watched his self-satisfied eyes roam over her. If she'd had the capacity she would have worried over his perusal of her rather than the road, but her thoughts were taken up only by the image of him, and how much she didn't dare to want something from him.

Breaking his hold on her, Mercy looked out of the windshield, and almost muttered her reply, "More like you don't like having anybody above you."

There was a glint of filthy intent behind his eyes, and Tommy grinned with predatory darkness.

"I think you'll find there are certain situations where I am entirely flexible about having someone above me."

Paying her more mind than the road again, Tommy took delicious pleasure in the blush that overcame Mercy, even catching an enticing pink vivify the hollow of her throat. Shock brightened her lovely features, and those eyes that caught him and that mouth that invited him were wide and beautiful and innocent. Tommy's mind and smirk darkened in response.

Her voice was strained, even after she cleared her throat. "The maids certainly haven't mentioned _that_."

Mr. Shelby laughed, and Mercy was grateful for the way it sliced through some of the tension, allowing her a rare moment of reprieve to find her breathing pattern again and ease the ache in her throat. Tommy found himself enjoying their conversation in more ways than he anticipated, and he worked his jaw a little as he ran the steering wheel through his hands.

A pause, a mercy he allowed his beauty out of a generosity born from the good mood she put him in, and he began his questions again. "Did you find employment that brought you joy in London?"

Mercy let out a long breath, almost a sigh of relief, and contemplated her response, thinking back to old mahogany counters and jars filled with a thousand colours. "Yes and no. I worked in a sweet shop for the first year. Mr. Tessle, the owner, he was going to pass the store to his son, but he died in France. Ypres."

Hesitant to recall any memories of the war in her employer, Mercy left out details of the battle injuries the machine gun had ripped through Adam Tessle, and hoped – she told herself she did so because she was a lovely person – that Mr. Shelby wasn't filling in the blanks she left with his own imagination. His face remained impassive and cool, and his tone was level as always, "I see. And was Mr. Tessle a good employer?"

Mercy grinned, a little teasing, and nodded emphatically, her dark curls bouncing around whisky, wide eyes, "The best."

A little bit of possessive jealousy wound tight around the corded muscles of his forearms, and his grip tightened imperceptibly on the steering wheel. "Aye? And what did he do to earn such an honour?"

Mercy thought there was a taste of darkness, a shadow she hadn't seen before, that twisted in Mr. Shelby's countenance. Fighting the urge to run the gentle tips of her fingers over the cutting edge of his cheekbone, to soften the tight cold that had settled there, Mercy laughed happily, "Allowed me free sweets anytime I wanted."

A little disdainfully, Tommy countered, "And that's worth more than the wages I pay you and the roof over your head?"

Mercy grinned, feeling more relaxed and in her element as they continued, letting her mischievous nature free, "It is a very nice roof, but I have a sweet tooth and questionable priorities." She shot him a wide smile, and Tommy wanted to swallow it with his own mouth, "The first place I visited with Charlie was the village sweetshop."

Nodding slowly, Tommy's voice was soft and caressing, intent on tickling her skin, "Hence the bonbons in the gift bags."

Mercy hummed, still smiling, though with an added glimmer of something more heated than her usual warmth, "Yes. Did you try them? They're heavenly." The rapture in her tone did something to him, and he tightened again. It was harder than he wanted to admit to keep his hand from reaching over to the back of her neck, to drag her into him, to taste her fear and excitement and innocence…

He grunted low in his throat, shooting heat right through her, "Did Charlie try them?"

Mercy shook her head. "No. His teeth aren't fully through yet; I'll wait until then at least to corrupt him with delicious and irresistible flavours."

Her sarcasm prompted him back to teasing, "You plan to make my son an addict too?"

Fixing him with a pointed look, she responded easily, implication thick but her voice soft and easy. "There are worse vices to have."

"I'm aware." Looking at him so boldly had a thrill running over Tommy, and he asserted his control with practised ease to remind her that he liked when she played, but she shouldn't ever expect to win. "So, sugar and Mr. Tessle. My list of things you like grows."

Swallowing a little harder than necessary, Mercy looked away from him and back again, shaking away her surprise at the turn in conversation. Back outside of her element. Back to the dining table, and his folded newspaper, and the prying, undressing looks he levelled her with. "I didn't realise people were acceptable list material."

"Because I knew the people you interacted with until now."

Mercy's eyebrows quirked again, "Is that right?"

"Glenn, Margaret, Charlie." Tommy had made himself aware of her conversations, had seen her flutter in and out of the kitchens and laughing in the playroom with his stern housekeeper, who graced her with indulgent smiles. His son loved her, that was certainly an easy tell. And she loved him. That was easy to see too.

Mercy seemed surprised, all the same. "They're on the list?"

"Aye." Tommy smiled slyly, thinking of the growing dossier on his beautiful employee that he knew made her uncomfortable and unnerved. He knew his interest in her made her feel something more than that, but she was less willing to display that to him.

He didn't mind working for it.

Mercy's response was almost automatic, "I interact with you."

Tommy looked at her in that voracious style that made her shiver, watching it work its way through her body, and his voice was so coarse and ragged she felt it scathe over her tense muscles, "And do you like me?"

The car and the gravel it flew over made no sound, and the wind had stopped hissing through the window. No birds chirped, no trees rustled. It was muted silence, like everything had stopped, and her eyes wouldn't let her find air from the blue crystal she was smothered in.

Her voice was, thankfully, clear when it left her, "I don't know anything about you."

Tommy grinned, taking pleasure in the way she let him devour her. Taking pleasure in the way she seemed to warm him as he did. "That's because you haven't asked me any questions."

Her laugh was breathy, and short. She wound her own window down a little, the breeze playing with her curls, searching for air that seemed to escape her. "You don't exactly seem open to them."

Tommy raised a dark eyebrow, "And here I thought you didn't know anything about me."

"That hardly feels the same -"

His words were slow, but he was quick to finish her sentence with a thought of his own, to tease out that warmth in her cheeks and press her edginess at his presence. "As knowing you like hot baths and turn a pretty pink when you're caught off-guard in wet silk?"

He really did like making her uncomfortable, and Mercy felt the spark of heated annoyance and embarrassment flutter through her stomach. "Yes."

He tried not to revel in the victory of her sharp tone, watching in his peripheral vision as his words worked their way under her skin. "You know I fought in France. You know I don't like questions."

"I know you like knowing more about me than I know about you." Mercy felt the need to show him she knew what he was doing, and he only looked forward and nodded, gratification lurking in the corners of his sinful lips.

"Aye. What else?"

She eyed him warily, wondering what path he was leading her down now. "You don't like small talk." He made a noise of confirmation in the back of his throat, "You like whisky, and cigarettes. Cars?" He nodded once, shooting her a glance of amusement, "Salmon." She pulled a face that had him smiling, "Suits and razor blades." That one earned her a look of fire, though it didn't seem reproachful. He was impossible to read. She moved to safer ground. "Horses."

He jumped in before she could continue, revealing the reason he'd set her on that road.

"Employees in wet silk and stained purple dresses."

Mercy didn't think it was possible to be more flustered than she felt in that moment, and could only grin with humility and mutter out a response to knead away at the atmosphere they'd managed to light between them.

"I'll be sure to let the maids know."

Letting out a gruff laugh, Tommy took her in once more. He let his thoughts travel forward in time, to Ada's smoky drawing room, mindless chatter that was intended to impress, fake laughter and the knocking of crystal tumblers. He thought about silk, or satin, red, green, black, white – the feel of it beneath his fingers. The feel of her supple back pressed into his hard front.

It was going to be a wonderful evening.

* * *

**My amazing readers, please review?**


	9. Chapter 9 - The Voice

**Author's Note: Not such a long wait this time!**

**My amazing, wonderful, brilliant reviewers – you keep me writing, and I love this story almost as much as I love you all. Please don't hesitate to review and let me know your thoughts!**

**In these strange times I'm happy to hear that Tommy and Mercy are here to alleviate a little of your hardship, and will try to update soon with a Tommy-filled chapter!**

**For now, I think it's time we see some more of Ada!**

* * *

There was something incredibly intimidating and frantic about Selfridges department store.

Starting in a small village and moving to Arrow House had been a startling change enough, but between bustling makeup counters of every design, a thousand mannequins covered in glittering waterfall fabrics, and middle-aged women in suffocating fur at every turn, Mercy felt like she was fighting for breath every second.

White and horizontally carved columns sparkled sporadically, and overly-persistent shop assistants seemed to appear from behind every single one, painted red lips around bared sharp teeth that made Mercy want to wince as they bit suggestions her way.

And while she floundered somewhat pathetically for air, Ada had, seemingly, found her element. Charging through the crowds with her deceptively strong fingers coiled around Mercy's wrist, Ada half dragged the younger woman over varnished marble and on harried feet. As seemed typical for every member of the Shelby family, Mercy noted that the other women and sparse sampling of men conceded to the dominance Ada seemed to possess and omit like a blinding light, ducking their eyes and turning from her instinctively to remove themselves from her warpath.

All in all, it had been a stressful day with the Shelbys so far.

Mercy tried to avoid thinking about Mr. Shelby's steely eyes and provocative smirk, wound in satisfaction and mockery as he handed her the yellow case that had fumbled in her slightly trembling grasp. He'd greeted Ada, who rolled her eyes at the dictation to not buy Mercy a guillotine to throw off her _op_pressive master. The look he sent her way smouldered of teasing fire, and Mercy almost missed it as she chose to avoid him in her awkwardness.

She was sure he was obnoxiously amused by her discomfort as he drove away, leaving only a searing memory in the very depths of her skin and the heady scent of smoke on her jacket.

It was only early afternoon, and Mercy felt exhausted.

So she was more than grateful when Ada drew back a floor length curtain and paused to essentially yank her into a private dressing room, circular and doused in deep red velvet, with dressing dividers and a myriad of gowns and shoes of every colour. But, more importantly, a plush black settee ran along the centre of the room and Mercy made a beeline to it, ditching her suitcase and throwing herself into its sanctuary, a smile set about her lips as she recovered her breath.

Ada, hands on narrow hips as she inspected the room and then Mercy's dishevelled state, raised a plucked eyebrow in her direction and let out a derisive laugh, "Not exactly built for the fast life, are you?"

Mercy laughed, still a little breathless as she shrugged away her coat, "That's one way of putting it. I didn't realise that people turned into such vultures in department stores. Unprepared doesn't begin to describe it."

Removing her own grey, calf-length overcoat and tossing it over the back of the settee Ada nodded with a grin, "It isn't usually so terrible, but there's a sale on at the moment," she gestured to the dresses on rails around them, "I'm sure my brother pays you well, but there's no sense in paying full price when there's a bargain to be had! Besides," she continued, pulling out a silver knee-length dress with draping fake crystals that clattered off-puttingly as they jumped about, "Who wants to buy only one dress when they're all this gorgeous?"

She threw the flapper dress over to Mercy, who was quick to wrinkle her nose and toss it back, much to Ada's amusement. Mercy shook her head, pointing at the silver number, "A little too loud for my tastes."

Grinning in a way that reminded Mercy of a particularly sneaky cat, Ada held the dress up against her own figure, a much more suited fit to Ada's thin frame, Mercy thought, and exclaimed with victory, "More for me then!" She began flicking through other dresses on the rail, humming a little in contemplation, "So what is it you're after then? And don't say anything along the lines of 'simple', 'cheap', or 'conservative' – that's for when you're working, not for when you're playing."

Mercy laughed, and began removing her shoes ready for redressing, "When I'm playing with Charlie I wear jodhpurs."

Ada tutted a little, her blue eyes – softer than her brother's, though still teasing – squinting a little in accusation and laughter, "Well the boys you'll be playing with tonight might prefer something a little more glamorous."

"Will they?" Mercy spoke in amusement, "I thought you were introducing me to liberals, socialists and communists: won't they be fundamentally opposed to me wearing something glamorous?"

Turning away from the rail where she had begun separating out dresses Mercy assumed were approved from the others, Ada pinned Mercy with a wry look of amusement, "Theoretically. But in reality all men like women that make _them_ look good."

Mercy began unpinning her hair, "I'm not looking for a man, though."

Ada snorted, "Of course you're not, and nor am I. That's why you should pick a dress _you_ like, not what you think anyone else will." Unbidden, Mercy had the fleeting curiosity of what Mr. Shelby might like of the myriad of dresses before her, but she blinked rapidly to thrust it aside as Ada continued, "Besides," her wry amusement was clear, "I don't imagine Tommy would be too happy if I had you married off by the end of the evening; I think he actually would prefer I make a communist out of you than a wife."

Stamping at any rising nerves or unbidden feeling, Mercy smiled with a little effort, contorting her face in a way she didn't usually have to force, "Especially the wife of a philosopher."

"He'd never let you near Charlie again." Ada joked, before turning with a clap of her hands, "Alright. You finish undressing, and I'll pull out some choices that should work for this evening. There's a seamstress here if anything needs pulling up or in, so don't worry about that."

Mercy hadn't been worried about it until Ada had said, but she couldn't deny that it might well be a necessity. She wasn't the ideal straight, skinny frame that the popular dropped waist dress hung so beautifully from; her figure leant itself more to an earlier style made to accentuate the narrow dip of her waist and the curve of her hips and breasts. She was a healthy weight and size, but not a fashionable one.

Stepping behind the divider, Mercy stripped out of the rest of her clothes, remaining only in her underwear and stockings, and took the dress thrust over the top of the divider by Ada. Having to duck to avoid the swish of the fabric, Mercy laughed and called out, "Can you at least wait until I'm clothed to kill me? To save my blushes?"

Ada cackled, "It's worth it in the name of fashion. Now get a move on or I'll have you buried in the 'loud' silver number."

Slipping into a dark red, calf length satin piece that had rounded, stitched detail at the hem and gathered at the bust, Mercy wiggled a little to pull it over her hips with near success before stepping into Ada's eye line, and in front of a mirror.

There was a pause as Mercy looked at herself, and Ada inspected her too with a tilted head. They hesitantly met the gaze of one another, and when they found the same conclusion in each other's expression they spat out a laugh each.

Mercy drew in a ragged breath, tears of laughter in her eyes, "My god, I look terrible!"

Ada nodded emphatically, "That is not the cut for you. You have far too much happening at the top to add detail, and it's too long for your height. The colour suits you nicely?" She added, as if trying to salvage some hope from her insults.

Raising her eyebrows with a grin, Mercy said with urgency, "The next one?"

And Ada nodded her agreement, "The next one."

The next one, it seemed, was much better by Ada's standard. It was a deep green that attracted the honey gold in Mercy's eyes, and it nipped at the waist. The neck formed a small 'v' shape meeting beneath her collarbones, and the hem fell to her feet, with a slit that climbed to mid-thigh.

It was the slit Mercy objected to. The dress looked nice enough, and was quite beautiful, but Mercy was clumsy and the thought of spilling open her dress in a tumble sent a red colour across her cheeks and into the 'v' of the neckline. Ada had shrugged and deemed it fair, before sending her to change once more.

They battled through three more dresses, all seemingly the wrong shape, length or colour, before Mercy stepped out with a smile and a nod before even finding the mirror.

Ada took one look from where she had thrown herself onto the settee and scanned the woman presented before with a quick exhale, a throw of her hands into the air, and a brisk "Finally!"

The champagne hue of the dress set off the light tan that garden time with Charlie had painted her with; the material grazed over her curves and highlighted them generously, falling to her knees with the length of the closely knit tassels that danced as she moved; deep golden patterns that glittered in lines and swirls over the smooth fabric caught the light, and Mercy felt happy.

More than that, she felt beautiful.

As Mercy had been admiring the dress, smoothing her hands over it repeatedly, enjoying the beauty and feel of the material, Ada had pulled out shoes for her to try on, matching the champagne base of the gown. She slipped into them and sighed. "I've never worn anything like this before. There's never been the opportunity or the occasion."

Ada appeared behind her in the mirror and smiled comfortingly, "Well I plan to have you come to London quite often, so you'll find plenty of occasion from here on out. Now let's go! I need to pick up my dress from upstairs, and you need makeup."

Sputtering a little as she was shoved back behind the divider, Mercy called out, "Why do I need makeup?"

Ada's retort was sardonic, "Do you own a lipstick?"

"No." Mercy reverently returned the dress to the hanger before slipping back into her blouse and skirt.

"Then that's why. Every woman should have a lipstick."

"But I'm not a woman most of the time," Mercy appeared from behind the divider, slipping into her boots, "I'm a childminder."

Ada rolled her eyes and slipped back into her coat, flicking out the stylish length of hair from the collar, "I didn't realise the two were mutually exclusive."

Mercy threw her a teasing look, collecting her case and purchases, "They certainly feel it when I'm half asleep and covered in sick."

Hiking her purse up her shoulder, Ada pulled back the curtain to release them from the dressing room and shot Mercy a look of mirth over her shoulder, "And on those days you can look at the lipstick and that dress and remember that you do have some feminine qualities after all."

* * *

Ada's house was stunning, and – ironically – a rather bourgeois place to hold a gathering of left-wing philosophers, politicians and patrons. The ceilings were high and windows large, the bar area was raised away in a small alcove with counters on either side and opened up through an archway into the drawing room, where Ada flitted with her half-sarcastic smile and a tumbler of expensive whisky.

She looked like the perfect hostess, effortless and beautiful against the duck egg blue and silver backdrop of her walls, a black diamond in the hue of her noir dress, the drop waist as flattering on her as Mercy had suspected, offset by a string of pearls and a scarlet lip.

Around Ada, some suited men sat comfortably in settees and armchairs, billowing smoke into the air in curls that seemed somehow more obtrusive and pretentious than Mr. Shelby's exhales ever did. They laughed little, but spoke a lot, often at the expense of one another, and Mercy wondered if even one of them was listening to another.

There were women too, pretty in dark colours that made Mercy feel like the outsider she knew she was. They clutched glasses of champagne and tumblers of whisky, and Mercy thought if it would be best for her to get a drink of water before joining the fray.

Ada spotted her, and obviously thought otherwise, catching her hand from where she half-sat on the arm of an occupied armchair as Mercy moved passed her to the bar, pulling her into her side with a wicked smile.

Mercy forgot about the features of her own face for a moment and wondered if they had warped into the discomfort and reluctance she felt so deeply, before shoving on a smile, speculating how different it looked painted in the dark red of her new lipstick.

Ada stood, letting her arm fall around Mercy's shoulders as she introduced her, "Gentlemen, to your complete misfortune you won't have met my friend Mercy before." The men all turned to look at her, and Mercy nodded, clutching the back of Ada's dress in a childlike way before realising what she was doing and releasing her, "Mercy, this is James Dawes, Christopher Mason, Fitzwilliam Carlton, Richard Matthews, and William Crawley. They're all very political and very opinionated and I'm sure they can't wait to corrupt you with Russian politics and Marxist revolutionary theory."

Smiling as politely as she could, Mercy blinked and tried to remember any of the names at all that Ada had just listed, "How thrilling that sounds."

When a low laugh rumbled through the gathering of men, Mercy assumed they'd heard her underlying cynicism.

Before any response could be made, one of them – blond and moustached, but young enough to be only late twenties – jumped to his feet and snatched up her arm to loop it around his before the surprise could even register in the quick beating of Mercy's nervous chest. "Now in order to be ready for that I think you'll certainly be in need of a drink. Whisky? Champagne?" He began guiding her to the bar alcove, and Mercy sent Ada a look of confusion, "Or are you a vodka girl? You look like a clean kind of girl to me, so I'm thinking vodka."

Apparently it didn't so much matter what Mercy thought about what she'd like to drink, and she only blinked as the blond man motored on, "But then the whisky… Ada does buy good whisky. Only Irish, of course, nothing Scottish or American here, which is a shame because Jack Daniels is a smooth son of bitch, new on the market and a cracking way to feel the burn of course, but still, I think you'll like the Irish kick. The Irish are good at that, after all, giving the English a good kick, don't you think?"

He handed her a tumbler that was rather full of the honeyed beverage, she thought, rather more full than his own glass, or that of any other in the room, but – even had she wanted to mention it – she never would have had the chance. Moving a hand to her lower back, he turned her around and moved her to the seat he had just vacated himself.

Uncomfortably, the man whose name she did not know – though that spoke for all of the men in attendance, because really, who had Ada introduced them as? – took a seat on the arm of her chair and lounged back and inward, leaning toward her bodily. "What do you think then, eh? A good blend, isn't it, good whisky. Strong kick."

Mercy nodded, knowing he wouldn't have noticed if she had or hadn't taken a sip of the neat beverage, because he was too busy looking at her dress and then the other men in the vicinity. He seemed smug and far too comfortable for her taste, and she thought briefly of the self-satisfaction Mr. Shelby always seemed to exude, and how she believed it had been annoying. Compared to this stranger who inserted himself far too closely to her, Mr. Shelby was positively endearing.

The blond turned his attention to the rest of the group and called over the din as they all spoke at each other, "I say, gents, we were talking about the Irish problem just now –" were they? Mercy couldn't recall a conversation at all. "- and what do you think about this religious poppycock? Can a revolution even be true if it's about remaining oppressed by organised religion?"

The mustachioed men charged forward with the new topic but all Mercy could here was a buzzing, consistent and frustrating as their voices droned together into banality. She thought of Mr. Shelby's voice, deep and rough and commanding in the way he ground out that he liked her wet silk robe and dirty dress.

She was so aware of his voice she thought she could pick it out of a crowd of a thousand shouting men; he could whisper, and she would hear it clear as day. If he were in France still and she in Arrow House, she'd feel the vibration of it through her nerves and up her spine until it lodged into the very heart of her and carved the words across her ribs.

Was that another Shelby trait? The demand for attention in the simplest way? Seeing Ada today made her think so, though she could hardly chalk it up to genetics the way his voice coiled through the stream of her blood, warming it almost inexplicably.

" - the opium of the people! What do you think, Mercy?"

Mercy refocused the gaze she didn't notice had hazed, coming to register the questioning stare of hazel eyes in front of her, belonging to an auburn haired fellow who had obviously demanded something of her.

She blinked, parted her lips, and breathed out an, "I'm sorry, I was distracted by the whisky. What did you ask?"

The blond man beside her laughed boisterously, "What did I tell you? The Irish kick!"

Mercy wondered if they could see the boredom in her forced smile, or if they even cared considering the fact she hadn't touched a drop of the liquid, but she hummed her agreement all the same.

The auburn man repeated, "Marx thinks that religion is the opium of the people. A way to keep the working class from questioning their place and accept that their happiness comes in heaven, after their suffering in this life. What do you think?"

Fleetingly, Mercy wondered if they were asking her as a poor person to reveal her stance, but dismissed the idea promptly. They didn't know enough of her to direct as such. So, shrugging, she smiled her most charming smile and responded, "I think opium would be a far more pleasant way to introduce a Sunday morning."

A pause, an awkward beat where Mercy held the strain of her smile, and then suddenly Auburn barked out a laugh and a chain reaction of bellowing hoots sounded around her, like an echo that wouldn't cease pressing upon her ears. Chimes of 'how charming!' patronised her, and Blond leaned in closer as the men settled, eyes aglow as they each took her in. "Aren't you a wonder! Where has Ada been hiding you, the cheeky minx! Squirrelling you away like a diamond in the rough!"

Mercy couldn't help but lean back and away from Blond, trying to recover some distance between them. She opened her mouth, a reply forming on her lips, but that voice – that growling, rough timbre she'd been thinking of – cut through the buzz, severing through the haughty atmosphere with a serrated edge:

"Ada has nothing to do with where she's hiding." Mercy whipped her head so quickly it almost strained, and behind her stood Thomas Shelby, intimidation and attraction all in one, staring down Blond until the man laughed awkwardly and raised his hands in uncomfortable surrender. "Mercy," steely eyes met hers, and relief, excitement and trepidation in contradicting measures surged through her nerves, "Let's get a drink."

He held his hand out to her, rough palm facing up, and without objection Mercy took it and obeyed his command. Thomas Shelby was certainly the more evil of the two before her, but he was the evil she knew, and the evil she trusted, and it was an easy decision to make. Blond didn't seem to agree. "She already has a drink."

Mr. Shelby looked down at the whisky in her hand and Mercy swore she saw a lightning strike of amusement illuminate his eyes, if only for a fleeting moment. Without a word he took the overly full drink from her, chased it down it what seemed to be two gulps, and threw the empty tumbler casually at Blond, who floundered to catch it under the bored inspection of Mr. Shelby before it smashed across the hardwood floor.

"Now she fucking doesn't." Mr. Shelby pulled her gently by the hand until she was stood beside him and didn't release his hold on her as they crossed to the sanctuary of the bar alcove.

Before they made it, a simmering Ada cut in front of them, her words shoved out between clenched teeth, "I thought you had business to attend to, Tommy."

"My business is finished for the night," His voice was soft, and so dangerous it shuddered down her spine, "I thought I'd come and enjoy myself with my sister."

Ada snorted with indigence and crossed her arms defiantly, "I didn't invite you. How is Mercy supposed to meet people and have a good time if you're here lording over her?"

Mr. Shelby sent her a wicked smile as he half turned toward her, hand still sheltering hers, a look of knowing on his face at the predicament he'd caught her in, and how much she had not been enjoying herself. "Mercy doesn't mind me lording over her, do you?"

Before Mercy could stutter out a reply, Ada cut in, "Of course she won't say she minds! You're her employer!"

Seeming to lose his patience, Mr. Shelby's countenance tightened, "It's been a long day, Ada, and I want a drink."

"And there aren't a hundred bars in London to choose from?!" Mercy felt caught, and awkward again, as the siblings seemed to war, their unyielding stubbornness and determination clashing heatedly.

"You have the whisky I like."

Halting Ada's retort, one of the women drinking champagne called her name out, beckoning the whirlwind hostess to her as she eyed Mr. Shelby openly. It didn't take one of the educated philosophers on the settees to understand what – or who – it was she wanted to ask Ada about.

Ada stormed away, sending a hot look her brother's way that spoke of biblical retribution, before pasting a smile back over her lips. At last they reached the alcove of the bar, and sheltered there in the shadows a sense of calm seeped over Mercy, from the top of her stylishly pinned curls to the point of her stockinged toes. She breathed deeply, as if finally free from under water, and then plunged back into an icy lake of crystal blue as soon as her eyes met Mr. Shelby's.

He smirked at her, all victory and unearthly beauty as the darkness moved around him, conforming to him, running through that voice of sin that didn't fail to illicit raised hairs over her arms.

"Better?"

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**Let me know what you think!**


	10. Chapter 10 - Breathless

**Author's Note: Doth your eyes deceive you? Have I updated twice in a week?**

**Why yes. I think I have!**

**This is essentially part two of the previous chapter, and I couldn't stop myself from writing this.**

**Please let me know what you think of this one. It's kind of a major chapter, and it's been in my head since the start.**

**I really, really hope you like it.**

* * *

She stood there in the darkness before him, the golden glitter striking through her dress in the dim low light. Something about the way the colour caught cast a hazy glow to her figure, and Tommy couldn't help his gaze from tracing the way the lines curled over curves and dips, revealing something seductively sinful wrapped in hues of heavenly virtue.

Her pinned silken curls were tucked under into a stylish, shorter cut he was sure he'd never seen her wear, highlighting the slope of her cheekbones and fullness of her lips. Lips painted in a shade of red that made Tommy think of blood: not the bright, scarlet blood of a shallow slice from a letter opener, but rather the kind of blood that came from the very centre of a person, dark and hallowed and life-giving.

It made him think of danger and death, and the colour he was bruising to see pouring from the face of the blond that had bared down over her like a lecher as Tommy sliced away his skin into ugly, wet ribbons.

He'd known she would be popular. He'd known that Ada would thrust her under a spotlight, and like insects the champagne socialists and intellectual communists would descend upon her in a plague of self-riotous stupor. If he was to be honest with himself it was the sole reason Tommy was even in Ada's drawing room. To keep the locusts at bay. To wither the plague.

To drag her back to the darkness with him, and wrap the shadows around her. A masterpiece only he had the pleasure to know.

"Better?" He'd asked her, but really he knew. He knew in the way she had been half-contorted away from the blond, leaning back so far he thought she might fall out of the chair; he knew in the way she had looked at him with relief and near-reverence when Tommy had arrived and interrupted; he knew in the way she took his hand, trusting him with hers – so soft and delicate – and let him lead her into the obscure without hesitance.

Still, her mouth was half open in ponder, and he enjoyed the way her eyes chased over his face, searching for an answer he would not give her. "Yes. And no."

Tommy smirked, eyebrows raised, "No?" His voice was low and quiet, but so clear to her still in the din of the room, "If you want to join them again, then by all means."

Mercy laughed humorlessly and shook her head, turning to inspect the crowd of men she'd just escaped. Tommy saw that two of them couldn't seem to stop their attention from searching for her, and their gazes hunted her out in the shelter of the alcove.

There were women too who peered over their drinks at him, painted faces piercing into the shadow to appraise and invite him. It was nothing to him, and he poured a glass of water and of whisky as Mercy seemed to inch closer to him.

"I think not. Better the devil you know, as they say."

Tommy turned to her, glasses in hand and an unholy smile of irreligious intent across his face. "A devil, am I?" He handed her the water, and the smile she sent him of surprised gratitude heated something dead and cold inside of him.

"Yes, but a preferable one at least." Her whisky-amber eyes glittered at him, and her teasing nerve invited him to step closer, flaming irises drawing him deeper and nearer to their warmth.

"Not many people would agree with that." He was so close to her now, only a foot away, that her hand almost grazed over him as she lifted her drink to sip, leaving an impression of dark red along the rim. Water had never looked so inviting to him.

"Perhaps not. But they're not in my position." Mercy's voice hung low, dancing on the edge of a rasped whisper, and it shot through him, rattling along the edges of his sanity, forcing Tommy to temper the urgency that rose inside of him and stamp the fire into low-scolding embers.

He stepped closer still, and his breath fluttered over her ear as she turned bodily to face the party, the rise of her chest catching and stuttering at his whisper, "Beneath me?"

Gulping her drink, she bought herself time, causing Tommy to smirk in satisfaction at the effect he had on her, watching the rise and fall of her throat, the flush kissing at her skin. "Employed by you."

Tommy hummed low in his throat, taking the empty glass from her hand and placing it, and his, on the counter, moving to stand behind her in the process, her back to his front. His nose near the slope of her neck allowed him a taste of her perfume, sweet and floral, and he stopped himself from grabbing her by the curve of her hips and forcing her back into him, burying his face into her hair, biting at her tender skin and running his hands over every inch of her. Instead Tommy hovered there, an inch away, and still an inch too far.

"Oppressed by me."

Her eyes moved too quickly over the drawing room to truly see anything, and Tommy could sense the coursing adrenaline that quickened her breath and slowed her thoughts. "There you go enjoying my discomfort again."

An icy storm passed through his irises, and a dark smile of enjoyment pulled at his lips. He did enjoy her discomfort; more poignantly he knew she enjoyed, in some way, _letting_ him discomfort her. Hadn't she been uncomfortable today, and hadn't she bodily repelled the blond suitor that hadn't been able to stop flicking his gaze her way since?

And wasn't she now, instead, almost leaning into him, a small tremor in her muscles, heart beating a little quicker as he pressed at her boundaries? As he taunted and corrupted her?

"There I go enjoying myself," Tommy paused, leaning in so his lips met the shell of her ear, letting her gasp thrill him and the lift of her breasts harden him, "Are you enjoying yourself, Mercy?"

She licked at her lips, wetting the dark lipstick into a shine, "It isn't as I expected."

"Is that right?" Low and slow, those words crept over her, stirring at a desire that had begun to form in the pit of her stomach. She felt every syllable tickle at the hair of her arms and the back of her neck, dangling her on the edge of a cliff that could very well be the death of her. "And what had you expected?"

"I didn't expect you to be here." Had she always sounded so breathless? So taken?

She felt his amusement rumble over her, the heat of his body standing so close to her working a flush across her, and she wondered how she'd come to be there, and if she even wanted to maneuver away. "Lording over you?"

Mercy laughed at Ada's regurgitated words, wishing she had something in her hands to grip, her mind flashing to the strength of the body almost against hers. "Hiding me away from unsolicited attention."

She noticed that Blond was searching for her still, and had she had the room – had it not meant throwing all the caution she had left (though it seemed so little) into the wind and eliminating the breath of space between herself and Mr. Shelby – she would have stepped back further, into the very depths of the alcove, a ghost unseen and intangible.

"It's in my interest to keep you hidden." His words made her think of Ada, laughing about marrying her off and the hassle it would have caused her employer.

Her employer. She needed to hold onto that. Though it was so easy to forget when he was so handsome and so close and so unyieldingly consuming.

She cleared her tight throat, though her voice still seemed compressed and rougher than usual, "Then our interests seem to have aligned for a moment, Mr. Shelby."

Mr. Shelby. The head of the Shelby family. A criminal. A war hero. Rich as sin. Her employer. Things she needed to keep at the very front of her drifting mind, which seemed to only care about the way her body ached to lean back, and into the strong form and determination of Thomas Shelby.

He gestured without moving, seeming to guide her with the direction of his gaze to the group of socialite philosophers she had escaped, "And their interest?"

Their interest? It certainly had nothing to do with her: she'd barely spoken a word, and they seemed to prefer it that way. She was there for amusement, and to be spoken at. "What of it?"

"Any one of them would have worked tonight to take you home." It would have been matter of fact, except that there was something deep and intentional and black in the way the words twisted out of him. Mercy's breathing all but stilled, and like in the car it seemed the rest of the room silenced and slowed, and she entered a sweet fog that blinded her, robbed her of sensing anything or anyone that wasn't Thomas Shelby. "They'd have talked to you, and put drinks in your hand that would make you forget your name. They'd have danced with you, and put their hands on any part of you they could reach.

"And all the while you wouldn't notice that they'd led you to a bedroom, because they won't have let you get a word in, and you'd be half-dead with boredom over Russia and Marx and the king and country.

"And whichever one of them got you alone would lift up your dress, this lovely, new dress, lay you down and spend three minutes fucking himself into ecstasy, and you'd be almost alright with it, because it would be the only three minutes of silence you'd had all night and you'd forgotten what it felt like to hear yourself think.

"Then he'd roll away from you, light himself a cigarette, and ask if you knew anything about Lenin's policy on the Russian railway trade."

He sounded almost bored for her, so composed as he narrated the way he saw the evening playing out; the way he despised that it would in a slow and even tone. Mercy would have hyperventilated if only she could draw in a breath to ease the ache in her dying lungs. She thought she had known discomfort with Mr. Shelby, but to hear him speak of another man _fucking _her tightened every muscle she didn't know she had.

This was the man whose son she had sworn to raise, the man she dodged like a coward in his corridors, who slept only three rooms away.

She should be terrified and humiliated and scorned and outraged.

But if she was, it was thrummed down and beaten away by lightning strikes of excitement and chills, and rumbling thunder of that stirring desire.

She was a perfect storm of every emotion she knew she shouldn't feel.

"What a party it would have been had you not intervened."

This time he didn't smirk, there was too much darkness in him, black in his veins and poison in his thoughts, "Why else would I be here?"

She shook her head, dizzy and hot, and her tongue was thick as she forced out her response, "So you're the protector of my virtue? You think me so gullible and easily swayed that I'd let a man that loves nothing but the sound of his own voice into my bed?"

It was supposed to be indignant, but her words hardly conveyed the strength of offence that she so wished they did. But coherent thought left her entirely as his hand – those warm, rough hands that she would be ashamed to admit she dreamt about at all hours – as it slid over her waist and down to her pelvis, before he forced her back to meet his hard front, stealing any notion from her head.

The warmth was almost too much to bear, but Mercy couldn't move for love nor money. She was completely still, and he all but owned her then in a way an employer never should. "Then what man would you let into your bed? What man would you let lift up your pretty new dress and fuck you? Because your bed is in my house, a bed I paid for. And I don't like the idea of any man in that bed."

His lips practically kissed at her skin as he mouthed the words into the tender spot just beneath her ear, and though she swallowed there was no moisture left in her mouth to be rid of. A noise, a sharp inhale too close to a gasp for her dignity to recognise slipped through lips that had become suddenly chapped, and Mercy's mind reeled with thoughts of the only man she'd ever really dreamed about having in her bed.

"You don't?"

"I don't." The depth of his voice scraped through his throat, and the vibrations in his chest reached a place inside of her that she didn't know existed, "If there is going to be a man fucking you in that bed, in my house, then it will be me.

"And I won't just lift your dress up and pull down your knickers to fuck you politely. I will tear this little dress off your body and strip away anything that covers any perfect fucking part of you. And it won't be three minutes of you on your back, closing your eyes and thinking of England. I will fuck you until you can't take it anymore; until you've forgotten your own name, and you can't stand on your own two legs. I will fuck you until you can't breathe, and you'll remember what it feels like to have me between your legs for the rest of your life.

"And then you can tell the maids how I don't mind whether you're beneath me or on top of me, with firsthand experience."

Both of his hands were on her now. One wrapped around her waist, the other holding her at the base of the her throat, keeping her pressed against him from her heels to the top of her head, coiled around her like a snake. It didn't stopper her oxygen, his words were enough to do that, but it encouraged her to sink against him as his words made her legs shake, and she surrendered against any will she previously had.

She was sure she had never been so red in her life, or was she pale, a sickly pale, in her shock and dismay and thrilling desire? When he ran his nose from the curve of her neck to the place behind her ear she trembled and exhaled.

What was he doing to her? What feeling was he enticing from her?

How could she let him do this, when she saw firsthand what an affair like this had cost her family?

Cost her mother?

Her lashes fluttered open, and only then did she realise she'd closed them, shutting out the drawing room that had abandoned all memory of either of them, left them to be ghosts in the shadows.

"Mr. Shelby –" It was half a whisper, one he responded to by muttering her own name back to her intimately, his lips a seductive imprint on her very soul.

"Miss Hale."

Before she could continue – to form a rejection, a plea, an invitation – a call across the room, a shout about the street below, and finally a gunshot ringing pierced the tension between them with a violent shudder.


End file.
